


My Tongue is a Weapon

by xx_bittersweet_merlin



Series: founders era [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: F/F, Family Drama, Gen, Hallucinations, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Strained Relationships, Time Travel, demigod - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:32:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xx_bittersweet_merlin/pseuds/xx_bittersweet_merlin
Summary: He doesn't know where he is. It stalks him through the woods, waiting for him to slip up, waiting for him to hit the edge.He goes back and tries to fix things, and somehow every time he attempts to make things better they splinter and fracture beyond his control.He goes back and he doesn't know what's real. He hopes that Hashirama is real. God, he hopes Hashirama is real.Second chances don't always make things better. Madara learns this as he tries to keep his brothers alive and his relationships from fracturing. And Hashirama is there, again, but it's different this time, and there are so many things Madara didn't notice the first time.





	1. the subjectivity of unreality

He doesn’t know where he is.

He remembers fighting- dying- reaching for the moon and falling short. He thought that would be the end of it, but instead there’s damp soil beneath his bare feet and leaves beneath his cheekbone when he wakes up. The woods are dark and the clouds overhead are grey and he can feel it watching him from the trees.

He runs, almost unaware he’s started, feeling it reaching for him with thorned branches that yearn to wrap around his ankles and arms and there’s a ringing in his ears that blocks out all else.

He runs, looking for something he’s forgotten, streaking through forest that all looks the same.

It closes in on him, whispering in his ear, trying to lure him near, and something like fear urges him to run faster and faster until he can hardly feel his legs anymore and there’s little breath in his lungs. The leaves and sticks break and crumble beneath his feet and leave them riddled with blood but he pays the sensation no mind.

Something trips him, and he goes tumbling, falling down a crevice in the wood, plummeting down a dark hole with no end as it reaches after him. He awakes in the same spot and sits there, confused, terrified, not able to see anything but knowing it sees him. The woods are still dark around him. He can feel it there, watching, lurking, and he can’t tell what it is- that is, perhaps, the most frightening part.

He runs again, as fast as he can, and hits the edge.

Something changes.

A young Hikaku finds him passed out in the grass, cheeks damp with tears and back streaked with scratches that look like claw marks.

* * *

 

Akira is so small. Madara can hardly remember him.

The last time he held his youngest brother had been decades ago. He’d died young- so young- in a skirmish with the Inuzuka. Madara remembers seeing it happen. He remembers seeing an adult Uchiha witness it, able to leap forward and intercept the strike with his own body, and refraining, letting the child take the hit instead. An adult, after all, was a far more valuable warrior than a child.

He remembers managing to get to Akira’s body in the mess that followed and carry it home- he remembers how Izuna had cried after their last brother was lost. Madara had promised him he would bring Akira back safe.

At first it feels as though he’s seeing the world through a filter. Nothing feels real, it all feels like a fake, a copy, an illusion. He wonders if the Eternal Tsukuyomi would have felt like this.

Akira is barely two, and he sleeps in Madara’s arms as if the world is at peace and he won’t soon be forced onto the battlefield. Madara sits on the floor with herbal paste and bandages on his back because they have no healers, having traipsed in almost past midnight, and sits there holding him, listening to the boy’s heartbeat, staring at a face that looks like his own.

Akira reaches up and grasps one of his bangs in his sleep. Madara hunches over and lets him, feeling tears well up in his eyes, wondering how on earth he’s going to protect all four of them.

* * *

 

Sometimes, it almost feels normal.

There’s a stark sense of greenhorn recklessness in the back of his mind sometimes. A sense that he’s young, far too young, and he wonders if he ever lived through life at all or if it was only a vision. Every day that passes leaves him feeling less like the man he was and more like a boy again and it is frightening. He’s scared of things; he gets nervous. He feels intimidated when his father rages and breaks things when he’s in private and no one can see just how frustrated he becomes. He’s anxious when he feels Tajima outside their room at night because he knows what that means.

Sometimes the details get harder to place. He finds himself struggling to remember Obito’s name and the amount of whiskers on that blond boy’s face. Things get…fuzzy.

But what’s real is the smile on Akira’s face as he tugs at his hand, the way Tatsuya’s eyes light up when he agrees to train with him, the way Ryota pouts when Madara doesn’t have time for him but ultimately ends up sneaking off from his duties early to be there.

“Come on, aniki,” Akira says, smile shining bright, hands tangled in the sleeve of Madara’s yukata. “Let’s go practice shuriken!”

Izuna is clinging to his side, god, Izuna, _Izuna_ , he’s there, he’s there, and Madara smiles.

“All right.”

* * *

 

“Don’t squint,” Madara instructed, tossing a kunai and landing it in the center of the makeshift bullseye he’d carved into a tree. The forest was quieter when others were around. “It doesn’t help, and when you get your Sharingan you won’t have trouble.”

“Have you gotten your Sharingan yet, aniki?” Tatsuya asked, eyes bright and shining and curious. Innocent. He was only five.

Madara paused. He glanced down at the two of them, keeping one eye on Izuna and Ryota a few paces away aiming at their own trees, and thought of the disappointment in Tajima’s eyes every day that passed and Madara showed no signs of acquiring their dojutsu. Just like the first time.

He kept trying to make it happen, but Madara refused to use it. The emotions he’d felt when he broke ties with Hashirama had been what activated his Sharingan, not his father. His Sharingan had activated because of Hashirama. No matter what Tajima did to him, he was going to give that privilege to Hashirama and no one else.

“No,” he lied, watching them pout a bit in disappointment. He turned back to the tree. “Try again.”

* * *

 

It wasn’t fair.

Tatsuya sniffled as Madara spread disinfectant across the wound on his arm, deep enough he would always have a scar. Madara had done his best to stay near but his power wasn’t what it once was, and he’d been drawn away in the heat of battle. He’d only just barely made it in time to ensure the blow wouldn’t be fatal and instead would only scar.

Tatsuya bit into his lip, trying so hard not to cry, because Tajima would berate him for crying. A hot, burning anger had cemented itself in Madara’s chest. He felt it more often than not and wanted nothing more than to feel his father’s blood run beneath his hands again sometimes.

“Is it going to get better?” Tatsuya asked him, whispering, eyes wide and afraid and trying not to let Tajima hear him. He’d seen shinobi come back wounded and succumb to their injuries countless times.

“You’ll be fine,” Madara promised him, though in truth he was no medic and could only hope infection didn’t set in. “Scars look distinguished. It shows everyone your mettle.”

Tatsuya smiled, or at least tried to, but he still didn’t look at his arm as Madara wound bandages around it.

* * *

 

He grows older. He doesn’t use his Sharingan.

His body count climbs, higher than it did before, because he can’t afford to let Tajima’s attention fall on his brothers. They are all still younger than him; Izuna and Ryota have just turned ten, and Tajima will be expecting their Sharingan to activate soon. If they don’t, Madara needs to keep the man’s frustration on himself.

He is thirteen and has killed more than most of the adults in his clan. He can feel their glares on his back, at how strong he’s become without a Sharingan to his name. He can sense how confounded some of them are. He knows how agitated Tajima is.

The nightmares get worse, lasting almost from the time he falls asleep until the moment he wakes, filled with blood and screaming and his brothers’ voices crying out for him and asking him why he let them die. Every morning he wakes shaking, or crying, or with a scream on his lips that he clamps down on, or all three. Every night he sees Izuna’s skull cracked open and Tatsuya’s eyes gouged out and Akira riddled with stab wounds and Ryota lying facedown in the mud, his spine showing through his clothes.

He wonders how he didn’t go insane the first time.

* * *

 

“What did I tell you?” Madara demanded, near hysterical as he grasped his brother’s mantle. “I told you not to stray from my sight! Don’t you know what could have happened?”

“Of course I know what could have happened!” Ryota snapped at him. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Please stop it,” Akira whispered, standing there covered with blood and sweat and grime. It wasn’t fair.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Madara insisted, something desperate welling up and urging him to make them understand- just how easily they could die in less than a moment. It had already happened. He wouldn’t get another second chance.

Ryota slapped his hands away. “You do this every time,” he went on, scowling. “I can take care of myself. Just because you’re the prodigy doesn’t mean you have to baby all of us.”

“Ryota,” Izuna tried to placate him, wincing.

“Stop getting so worked up over every little thing! You could at least trust me a little bit!”

Madara reared back as his voice rose to a yell and a red pattern whirled into place in his eyes, making Izuna suck in a startled breath and Tatsuya gasp. Ryota whirled and stalked away from him, hands clenched into angry fists, not noticing the way Tajima watched him like a vulture from afar with a satisfied look on his face.

Madara stood there staring after him, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do. Ryota had died years ago and Madara had never had to weather an argument like this with him.

* * *

 

And then there was Hashirama.

“That’s how you reach the other side,” the boy with a dumb bowl cut said with a wink, grinning down at him with one arm still outstretched.

Madara felt many things: overwhelming euphoria, a nervous tension telling him not to screw this up, the urge to leap at the other boy and wrap his arms around him.

“Tch,” he snorted, tossing a stone up and down as he looked away. The anxiety he felt when he went into the forest alone was…abated, and everything felt calmer now that Hashirama was there. “Don’t act like you just said something cool.”

A cloud slammed down over the other boy’s head. “You’re the one who couldn’t even get halfway there,” he mumbled.

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear a lecture from you on stone-skipping!”

Hashirama straightened, looked at him, and shrugged. “Guess I’ll go, then,” he said, turning on his heel with a cheerful tune on his lips as he whistled.

Madara startled. “Hey, wait-!” He froze as Hashirama turned to look over his shoulder with a grin and half-lidded eyes. He hadn’t noticed at all the first time, but had- had he just been played? “I didn’t say to leave, you idiot!”

Hashirama let out a laugh that sounded much too bellowing and planted his hands on his hips. “Well, fine, but you’re indecisive. I guess since I can’t expect you to introduce yourself I’ll go first. I’m Hashirama.”

And everything felt right.

* * *

 

Nothing is right.

Madara knows the blood on his hands is going to send him to Hell. The blood of Uchiha, of his clansmen, of people he should have protected, and instead felled with no mercy.

Perhaps it was meant to happen this way; his own actions damned him the first time and they would again. His father was unaware of the way he tracked their groups’ movements and their skirmishes with the Senju, of the way he read the reports on Tajima’s desk in secret, of the way he stalked through the woods on their territory’s border during the night, looking, waiting.

Of the way he came upon his fellow Uchiha, surrounding a small body in the forest, and aimed kunai at their necks and hearts from his hiding place and destroyed their eyes afterwards and the way the terrified boy sitting curled up against a tree watched with wide eyes as a blood-splattered shade mutilated the people who’d been about to kill him. Even with all his efforts there had to be some measure of luck- or fate- finding him before it happened. He wonders if there’s a god.

He was a child, Madara told himself. Grown men were not innocent. He should know.

And yet he still finds himself weeping when he slithers into bed, thinking of Uchiha fans soaked with red, thinking of when he’d done this once before two months ago, and he doesn’t know until Izuna asks him why and he can’t come up with an answer.

Nothing is right. Madara knows he’s going to Hell.

* * *

 

“I almost lost my brother last night,” Hashirama says, morosely, and Madara stares at him with a lump in his throat. “I still don’t know what happened. He…he can’t even speak.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

Hashirama shrugs. “At least he’s alive,” he says with a weak smile. At least Madara’s spared him, no matter what it took to do it.

He wishes he could tell Hashirama what he did, not for his sake, but his own. He wishes he could tell someone. He does not.

* * *

 

Sometimes he found himself…staring.

It never happened when others were around. Only when he was alone. Whether he was in the woods or simply near them, he would find everything going quiet, eerily quiet, and the trees would start to become the only thing he could focus on. The birds would become silent, the breeze would stop, the air would become cold.

He would stand there, and stare, and stare, and stare until the branches seemed as if they were winding and reaching and curling- almost…

“What are you staring at?”

Madara didn’t jump, so caught up in looking at the thing, and he almost didn’t notice Hashirama standing there. He turned and found the boy right beside him, frowning, staring at him with an odd intensity. “What?”

“What’re you looking at?” Hashirama repeated, looking more closely at him with narrow, confused eyes. “You’ve just been standing here.”

“Oh.” Madara’s mind still felt a bit fuzzy and he felt the odd need to deny…whatever odd thing had been happening to him his whole life. “It’s nothing.”

Hashirama raised an eyebrow at him.

“Let’s go do…something else,” Madara said with a weak shrug, and started walking back towards the river. Hashirama was here now; things were all right now.

* * *

 

Ryota sat on a tree stump, arms folded, wearing the exact same stubborn expression that Tatsuya and Izuna did when they were irritated. Akira sat cross-legged on the ground next to the stump with Tatsuya next to him. Izuna had tugged him by the sleeve to their usual training area with a pleasant look on his face and now stood there, letting Madara stand awkwardly not knowing what to say.

Ryota finally sighed and scuffed one of his sandals in the dirt. “I didn’t mean to yell at you or anything,” he said, looking sour at having to drop his pride. “So let’s just forget it, okay?”

Madara stared at him and then shrugged, averting his gaze, staring at one of their carved trees. “It’s fine,” he muttered, unsure of what else to say. He sunk down onto a stump and rubbed a thumb over his wrist where he’d once accidentally stabbed himself with his quill after one too many nights spend doing paperwork.

“So…does Father…think we’re going to fight with the Uzumaki again?” Tatsuya asked, voice small and timid, because none of them liked fighting with the Uzumaki. The last they had they’d sustained more casualties than almost a full month of fighting with other clans.

“I’m not sure,” Madara murmured in reply.

“He told me we’re going to attack again next week,” Ryota said, and Madara saw something like smugness in his eyes before he caught him looking and it was replaced by something a little guilty. He shrugged. “But it was just today, so…”

Madara nodded and let them fall back into silence. At least Ryota- and Tatsuya, now that he’d seen Akira almost fall from the precipice of a cliff while they were fighting the Yamanaka- activating their dojutsu and his own “failure” was enough to keep Tajima’s attention off Izuna.

“Hey, Madara,” he heard Hikaku call out, and glanced up in curiosity. He stood at the path near the clearing, Naori and Kotori behind him, with a bag slung over his shoulder. “We’re going to go have a campfire. Want to come?”

They were each in his age group, only one or two years older than he, and at one point he might have said yes but now all he could do was look at his brothers and feel afraid of leaving them alone for even an evening. “Another time,” he called back, and Hikaku nodded at him before walking away. He tried not to feel disappointed.

* * *

 

“Make sure not to climb too high,” Hashirama calls up to him one day, and Madara instantly feels ornery.

“Why not?” he called down from his perch on the mountain cliff overlooking the river, which somehow seems taller than he remembered it.

Hashirama stood below him on the shore, hands on his hips, staring up at him with squinted eyes and a frown. “Because going too high can make you dizzy.”

“I don’t know, Hashirama,” Madara called back innocently, reaching for another handhold. “That sounds fake.”

“Fake? It’s not fake!” Hashirama yelled, sounding indignant. “My friend Hitomi told me! She’s a medic, she should know!” Madara climbed higher. “I mean it!”

“Still sounds fake,” Madara shouted. He pulled himself onto a ledge, momentarily disappearing from view, and peered back down. Hashirama was in the exact same spot. “So going too high makes you dizzy?”

“It’s the altitude!”

“Huh.” He stood and pretended to consider for a moment. “You mean…dizzy?”

He started to sway, making Hashirama point at him and shriek. “H-hey, don’t joke around about that kind of thing! Madara!”

“I can’t help it, Hashirama,” he called, holding a hand to his forehead. “Going too high makes you dizzy.”

“Stop making fun of me! It’s true! And stop, you’ll unbalance yourself-”

“SO dizzy,” Madara pretended to groan, flopping over the edge and inwardly cackling at the squeak Hashirama let out.

He felt himself plummeting toward the ground, and had planned on catching himself just before he hit when Hashirama’s body rammed into his. He let out a shriek of surprise as his course was aborted and he found himself being flipped around, held in Hashirama’s arms as the older boy went skidding in the sand below. “Hashirama! Why’d you catch me?”

“Why did you jump off a cliff?” Hashirama shouted back.

“I didn’t jump, I gracefully fell!” Madara retorted, planting a hand on the Senju’s annoying forehead and trying to extricate himself from his grasp. Hashirama started to laugh and held onto him tighter. “You moron, let me go! I don’t need you to catch me like some-”

“Princess?” Hashirama asked him, grinning even while his hand made his head crank back at an uncomfortable angle. “Princess Madara!”

“Shut up!”

Hashirama laughed harder, unbalancing himself and stumbling back. They went tumbling into the grass and Madara used the fall to flip on top of him, pressing his face into the grass and taking a handful to shove into his mouth. “You bastard!”

Hashirama’s laughter got louder as he batted at him, starting to wrestle with him as they devolved into play fighting. Madara knew it would stain his yukata but he didn’t care.

He managed to make Hashirama eat a mouthful of grass before they had to stop and sat there, panting, Hashirama still grinning with mirth. There was green decorating his bottom lip and neck and somehow it didn’t look strange at all. Hashirama always felt as if he belonged to the forest.

Or maybe it belonged to him.

Things had been simpler when they were children, when they were just two friends who didn’t know each other’s clan name meeting in the woods and having fun. Madara had missed those days even in his darkest ones, even when he’d tried to erase Hashirama from his life, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it.

He had never realized how much he’d missed Hashirama over the years.

He let himself enjoy it while it lasted, because he knew it was ending soon, because he knew he would have to cross blades with Hashirama soon, because he knew they would both exit childhood and become adults soon. He was often frustrated, feeling as if life was dribbling by at the slowest pace as he tried to keep his brothers alive and yearned for a village they could be safe within, but once Hashirama was gone it would go faster than it was now. Now he wanted to savor it.

He reclined in the grass, listening to Hashirama start to ramble about an herb he recognized in a shrub nearby and all its medicinal uses, and let himself enjoy it. It was going to end soon.

* * *

 

Sometimes he sees them.

They haunt the places just out of his sight and echo in tones just a bit too high or low for him to hear. He thinks maybe they’re ghosts, or spirits, or maybe just fragmented pieces of his own memories following him around.

He sees Obito’s face in a tree once. Sometimes he sees Zetsu, dark and writhing, in the corners of his ceilings. At times he’ll be doing something such as sitting with Izuna eating his breakfast and look up and see a flash, just for a moment, of a piece of the darkness looming over someone and he has to shake himself out of it.

One time he thinks he sees someone that looks like himself, but not quite, standing in the shadow of a tree as he teaches Ryota his fire jutsu. It’s gone in a blink of an eye and he wonders if he’s going crazy.

It’s not real, he tells himself. Maybe none of it is real. Maybe he’s still dead, making up a world to torture himself in, reliving his life endlessly down in Hell.

Sometimes he thinks it _isn’t_ real. That he really has constructed a make-believe world for himself. Sometimes he walks through the compound, through his day, feeling as if he’s hearing everyone speak from underwater, seeing them from behind a film that’s just slightly blurry. He doesn’t belong here. He’s already been here. He doesn’t belong.

“Want to race to the top?” Hashirama asks him, smiling, pointing to a tree almost as tall as the cliff. At least if none of it’s real, Madara thinks, Hashirama is there. His voice brings him out of it and he musters a weak smirk in reply.

Hashirama ends up winning. He starts wondering, halfway up the tree, if he would actually die if he let himself fall, or if he would plummet through the ground and into the sky and keep falling forever.

He wonders what’s real.

Hashirama clasps his hand as they sit on the cliff overlooking the sun starting to set, talking about his dreams and the village he wants to create and the children he wants to keep from dying, and Madara hopes, he hopes, that he is real.


	2. dark inside my head

He makes a mistake one day.

“What’s the matter?” Hashirama asks with a frown, because Madara’s gait is slow and his eyes are half-lidded. He thought he would be fine to make the trek to the river, but he’s become tired and feels close to passing out.

“M’fine,” he mumbles, but Hashirama isn’t deterred, looking him up and down with a frown and placing a hand over his forehead. He doesn’t argue with it. Anytime Hashirama touches him he feels real.

Hashirama’s hand begins to glow. He doesn’t even care about showcasing his skill in front of him.

“Did you fight a Yamanaka?” he prods, and Madara has trouble understanding for a moment.

“No,” he says before he does, thinking of the nightmares Tajima gave him the night before, “it isn’t from a fight.”

Understanding dawns on Hashirama’s face. Madara realizes what he’s revealed a moment too late and tries to ignore the anger in Hashirama’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything else, but he lets Madara sleep with his head on his shoulder, and he’s glad that there are no questions.

If he starts looking forward to their meetings because he knows Hashirama can heal him, he doesn’t mention it.

* * *

 

Hashirama’s face is earnest and hopeful even though Madara knows he realizes they can’t simply continue being friends. He thinks maybe Hashirama doesn’t realize it, doesn’t know he’s staring at Madara with such an expression, or maybe he knows everything and does it anyway.

He remembers this. Remembers how he’d attempted to erase Hashirama and their childish dream from his life.

Somehow, he just can’t manage to say the words again. He can’t bring himself to verbalize what he knows he has to do for now. To cut ties with Hashirama.

“I’m Uchiha Madara,” he finally says, and Hashirama doesn’t look surprised. He wonders if he knew. “An Uchiha and a Senju can’t be friends.”

Hashirama looks as though he would argue, but their fathers and brothers are behind them. Ryota and Izuna are there. A boy with tan hair and a scar on his face stands beside Tobirama.

“Well, Madara?” his father asks, and Madara hates the sound of his voice, but he sounds angry and Madara loves it. He’s angry that Hashirama brought his Sharingan to the surface after years of tormenting him for it. Madara feels satisfied.

“Hashirama is stronger than me,” he says, ignoring the look Ryota sends him. “We won’t win.”

They leave.

* * *

 

“You could’ve taken him,” Ryota says, later, his eyes hard.

“No,” Madara tells him, because the boy does not yet understand Hashirama. “I could barely handle him.”

* * *

 

Every time Tajima made him spar with him he came away covered in bruises and cuts that were always in the same places. Madara hated his father, hated not yet being strong enough to take his place, hated having to watch him push Izuna harder so he would awaken his own Sharingan. Fortunately his brother seemed more apt than he and didn’t take long.

But it wasn’t the bruises that concerned him. It was that he could see his brothers soaking up Tajima’s words, his hatred for the Senju, his adamant stubbornness about never trusting them. He could see Izuna hardening again and Ryota was- Madara had no basis for comparison with Ryota. He was angry and confident in his strength and so much like his brothers but he didn’t yearn for peace.

It was all so…tiring.

He was fourteen going on fifteen, and he could hardly remember being older. But he does remember what it was like to have Hashirama. Having him again made it all the worse to lose him again. He missed Hashirama.

“You know,” Izuna said as he smeared paste across a cut on his forehead; he was the only one who did. Tatsuya and Akira were too young. Ryota was…more distant, nowadays. “Akira’s starting to ask why you get so banged up sparring with Father.”

“He hates me,” Madara commented mildly, unconcerned with the notion. He hated Tajima too.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Izuna argued, for the principle of it, but he looked away when all Madara did was stare. “He’s…he’s a difficult man.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Madara reached up with the rag he’d been holding and wiped a fresh dribble of blood from his busted lip away. “I can handle it.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” Izuna whispered, more to himself than Madara. “What…what about your nightmares?”

Madara didn’t say anything. Izuna didn’t know his nightmares weren’t nightmares.

“Bad as ever, huh,” Izuna murmured, closing the bottle of medicine he’d been using, which was growing dangerously low. “Are you all right?”

Madara didn’t answer. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know if it mattered.

* * *

 

He sees Hashirama once, on a field full of only corpses and not another living soul, and they stand there staring at each other across the distance. At one point in his life- or maybe that was a life he doesn’t remember- he would have fought him, but this time he just turns and melts back into the shadows. He thinks he sees Hashirama’s expression fall. Maybe that was part of another life too.

* * *

 

Madara had traveled to a small village at the base of a mountain in the mountain range that separated two of the Land of Fire’s largest forests to look for supplies, traveling alone, as he always did. Once upon a time he traveled with Izuna and Ryota but they were both now too busy with Tajima’s tasks and he didn’t think they looked at him the same way anymore.

He remembered when they looked up at him with wonder, their elder brother who was the best at everything and took care of them. Tajima’s mouth ran over the years. _Madara isn’t suited for this task. He isn’t strong enough for this. You need to be stronger._

He rounded the corner of a building into another section of the alleyway he was traipsing around in, empty-handed. The villagers had nothing to spare since winter had set in and the Uchiha’s supply of medicinal herbs was dangerously low. They had precious few healers and the ones they did have were overtaxed and overburdened.

He stopped cold when he saw the figure coming towards him from the other end. A dim light from the moon and stars above lit up Hashirama’s face, and he drew up in surprise when he saw him. The bowl cut was awkward and shaggy and barely brushed the nape of his neck. “Madara?”

Madara’s name on his lips soothed him like no medicine could, but he still reached for the handle of his sword on his hip on instinct. He knew Hashirama wouldn’t hurt him- not really- but it was ingrained.

“I won’t hurt you!” the Senju blurted out, taking a step closer that he aborted when Madara edged back. “I promise!”

His face was open and yearning, pleading with him, and Madara swallowed before slowly relaxing. “Are you here with anyone?”

“No. It’s just me.” Hashirama’s eyes were burning as they stared at him in the darkness. “The Senju are camped on the northern base of the mountain.”

Madara swallowed again. The information was an offering, he knew, Hashirama trying to be earnest, Hashirama trusting him when he shouldn’t. “The Uchiha are on the plains,” he whispered, hating himself for doing so. Hashirama was a Senju. “They haven’t come near the mountains yet.”

Hashirama looked a little bit relieved. His eyes drifted up and down Madara’s body, thinner, more willowy than he should have been.

“They’ll probably fight eventually,” he murmured at last. “But we…don’t have to right now.”

This was dangerous, and probably stupid, and Madara let him veer closer into his personal space as they stood there.

He breathed in the scent of forest that radiated from Hashirama’s body, different from simply standing in the woods, a scent that smelled of deep oak and sweet nectar and warmth on the hearth.

They didn’t say much, but he let Hashirama hold his hand.

He went home with salves and herb satchels in his bag and told his family a practitioner’s shop had been selling out their old inventory for cheap.

* * *

 

He dreams of his mother lying dead at his feet, eyes gouged out, body swollen in all the wrong places.

He finds Watatsumi on the forest floor, wing broken and one eye swollen shut, and hides her in his shirt to take back to their encampment feeling like he’s finally found something that feels a little good again. He feeds her worms he digs up with his fingers and scraps from his brothers’ food and some from his own, though it makes him feel guilty to withhold even a little from his brothers.

Izuna looks at the bird with curiosity when he sees it. Tatsuya looks a bit green when he sees Madara trying his best to re-bandage her wounds. Ryota gives her one short glance and tells him he should just throw her away as he leaves the room.

Tajima catches sight of her, when she’s perched on his wrist, a scruffy little thing starting to recover, and gives him a scornful look but says nothing because the Senju are approaching and he hasn’t the time for it.

The other Uchiha think he’s being softhearted, too, though some have found birds they wished they could have helped like he tries to help Watatsumi, and Hikaku advises him not to get too attached because most likely she’ll die in the winter cold. He isn’t trying to be cruel, but he is wrong.

He dreams of Watatsumi’s mangled and crushed body in his lap as he cries and tries not to imagine it when he looks at her. Sometimes he sees it during the day too.

* * *

 

Hashirama heals his wounds after their battles with apologies in his eyes and regret in his touch. It frightens Madara to go up against the Senju with all his brothers, knowing the Senju are so strong he could lose all of them in one instance, knowing that neither of their brothers hold back against each other like they do.

He brings Watatsumi, one day, and Hashirama smiles and says she’s pretty. Madara thinks that he doesn’t deserve Senju Hashirama.

Watatsumi tries to take messages for him, but Tajima’s hawks are larger and meaner and watch any odd activity. She manages to bring back a tiny dandelion once that he knows didn’t grow naturally and he thinks, with a small smile, that maybe there is hope.

* * *

 

Tajima didn’t pay attention. He didn’t look at Madara’s small, scruffy, worthless little pet that would probably die in a few weeks.

Madara watches Watatsumi fly back to him after the winter, freely roaming in the sky above the field the Uchiha falconers inhabit, having just chased off Tajima’s three hawks when they tried to bully her as easily as if they were flies. The fact that their pride is hurt more than their bodies is only an insult.

Because Watatsumi is large, larger than any of the other birds, gigantic and strong with talons sharper than his kunai and looking meaner than any of the rest. One vulture tries to approach her and she lets out a scream that sounds monstrous and throws it into a bush with nothing but her beak. She's a monster, a beautiful, beautiful monster, and he remembers how much he loves her. 

She lands on his bare arm and he tries not to feel smug. He sees the narrow-eyed look on Tajima’s face and decides to stop trying.

Watatsumi takes messages for him just fine after that.

* * *

 

_The dandelion spot?_

Hashirama never says his name, or his own, or gives any indicator of who they are or where they’re going. He sprouts different flowers where they meet and it becomes their code. Sometimes, when he sees Madara, he perks up and smiles even if they had to engage in battle previously that day and peonies blossom from the places his footsteps fall. Tree branches tend to wave in his presence when he looks at Madara and tiny little vines curl at his feet.

He asks to meet Madara more often, sneaking out under the cover of night or the rare instances where they can get away during the day, and Madara knows they’re both being overeager and greedy and wanting more and not to leave but he can’t stop.

He can’t stop.

Neither can Hashirama.

* * *

 

Madara nearly tripped over a tree root when he stepped into the clearing. They were wriggling about on the ground, almost comically, and he raised an eyebrow at Hashirama as the other boy smiled sheepishly at him.

“Uh…sorry,” he said, a flush on his cheeks as he stood there and tried to get them to calm down. They stilled, finally, and he rubbed his cheek. “I was a little nervous.”

Madara rolled his eyes. “Why? It’s just me.”

“Ahaha, yes, I know, but…” Hashirama’s eyes darted to the side. His hair was dragged up into an awkward ponytail that reached his hairline. Madara’s own was a complete mess he was ashamed to leave his room with that he’d forced into the messiest bun known to man. “I have something for you.”

Madara’s eyebrow shot back up. Fumbling, Hashirama reached up this neck and pulled something off, making Madara freeze. “Um…for you,” he said, smiling awkwardly as he held it out to him. “I made this for you. So I’ll always be able to- well…just…take it. Please.”

Madara blinked a few times. The green crystal on the cord being held out to him glinted in the sunlight. He should say no, he knew. He really should say no. But…

It was a gift from Hashirama. Something he’d made for Madara. And Madara very much wanted to take it.

He would have to keep it hidden, show no one. Hashirama didn’t know what giving him a necklace would typically mean. Nonetheless, he flushed as he reached out and took it, his fingers tingling where they brushed against Hashirama’s. “Th…thank you. It’s…very pretty.”

Hashirama’s face lit up. “Really? I’m glad you think so! It took…a bit of searching to find a good material.” His eyes drifted to Madara’s neck, bared by his yukata instead of his usual mantles, and he smiled again. “Here, let me put it on for you.”

He moved forward and stepped behind him, bunching up his unruly hair so it would be easier to slip it over his head and draping it over his neck. A shiver went down Madara’s spine.

It was…fine, if it was Hashirama.

“Thank you,” he murmured again, not sure what else to say, and stared at the grass as Hashirama stepped out from behind him.

The trees were silent.

Hashirama raised a hand and gently stroked his bangs out of his eyes, making him raise them to meet his own, staring at him with a distracted, soft look in them. “It suits you.”

Madara curled his hand over the crystal and focused on its warmth. Even with the cold of the forest, it felt like it radiated heat, a little piece of Hashirama himself to carry with him.

He didn’t want to leave.

* * *

 

“Where’s that from?”

“Where’s what from?” Madara asked, squinting in confusion and the need to bring his brother’s face into focus. He’d only used his Mangekyo in secret, when he was sure no one on the battlefield would see, so the degradation isn’t too bad yet- but Izuna is standing across the room, and the lines of his face are a bit hard to make out.

Izuna veered closer and pointed at his neck. Freezing, Madara realized he’d forgotten to put the necklace under his shirt and quickly stuffed it under his collar. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Ryota, sat by the window as he smoked a pipe- he was too young for it, Madara told him, but he retorted that Tajima was his father, not him, and he’d said he could, so he did- looked over at him and narrowed his eyes. He was in a sour mood, mostly because the Senju had sent them packing that afternoon. “Is that a necklace?”

“Who gave you a necklace?” Izuna asked, sounding honestly curious as he raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s not important. Just forget it,” Madara replied, going back to the scroll he’d been reading.

“Would it happen to be whoever you send letters to?” Ryota prodded, sounding a bit accusative, making Madara pause and glance up at him. He raised an eyebrow like his brother. “Maybe I should tell Father.”

Madara’s hands tightened on the scroll. He gritted his teeth, trying not to look as irritated as he felt, and glared at his brother with a bit of red in his eyes. “Test me.”

Ryota stared sullenly at him and turned away to the window, the silent equivalent of a huff, and grunted. “Pfft. Whatever.” Madara turned away from him to glare at the floor, while Izuna frowned at his neck still. “Ph…sorry.”

Izuna caught his eye again, now more suspicious than curious, and they said nothing more but Madara could taste their dissatisfaction on the air.

He wasn’t going to share anything about Hashirama with any of them. Hashirama was his, not theirs, and that necklace had been his gift he’d made for Madara only.

It was his truth, and his father had no right to it.

* * *

 

One night, at almost three in the morning, he painstakingly makes sure no one follows him as he heads to the clearing they’re set to meet in. Hashirama looks exhausted when he gets there. He’s still in his armor, splattered with dried blood, and he summons a weak smile when he sees Madara’s face.

He sets the small basket he’s taken to bringing, full of food Madara always looks forward to, on the ground and takes a few steps towards him. Madara wanders closer and gives him a once-over with his eyes. He understood the tiredness.

“Madara,” Hashirama murmured, sounding as if raising his voice anymore would tire him out too much. “It’s good to see you.”

Madara nods, knowing he doesn’t need to voice that he feels the same, and they stand there, both tired, soaking up each other’s presence. It makes him feel a little bit better.

They’re standing close, now, and he lets himself dwell on the feeling, listening to Hashirama’s quiet, even breath.

He’s looking at him with a quiet expression, almost contemplative, and Madara stares back, unbothered by being looked at.

“Madara…” His voice is soft and a little questioning, or pleading, perhaps, and he averts his eyes. Madara turns away, too.

They stand there, the time passing by.

Hashirama hesitantly reaches out and takes ahold of his sleeve. Madara could shake him off, easily, but he doesn’t say anything. “Madara…”

Madara looks up at him again, and he looks so tired and like he has no idea what he’s saying, and really, Madara knew he didn’t. He didn’t know either. He didn’t think either of them knew, he just knew he _needed_ something and that he didn’t want to leave.

Hashirama was a little bit closer, then, and his breath was mingling with Madara’s in the air, warm, close. Madara stared into his eyes and found something distracted and focused and a little hypnotized. He wondered when they’d started standing so close and when he’d started leaning closer.

“I…should probably head back,” he muttered as he ducked his head. Hashirama paused, breath hitting his forehead, and he rubbed a thumb over his wrist.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. He takes a deep breath. “All right.”

Madara turns and leaves, after Hashirama makes him remember to take the small wrapped packages in his basket. He doesn’t think about any of it. He tries not to think about any of it.

* * *

 

Izuna joins in on mocking the Senju around the campfire. Ryota says they’d be better off dead, especially that plant monster they’ve spawned, a freak of nature if he’s ever seen one. Akira doesn’t say anything, but he’s gotten quieter over the years and never leaves Tatsuya’s side, and they both usually follow their father around taking his orders and not considering peace.

They stare at his necklace again; Tatsuya and Akira, too, since either Ryota or Izuna probably blabbed to them. They badger him about it again, as well, and he snaps at them so irritably that none of them speak to each other for much of anything for a few days. Tajima takes them further into the forest to try and flank the Senju.

Madara is…tired.

The nightmares are constant and breaking him down and never stop. They’re worse than before and there is _so much_ to watch, so many things that could befall his siblings, so little for them to eat in their worse-off times. He’s hungry and tired and sometimes finds himself clutching Hashirama’s crystal beneath his mantle.

He’s anxious, always anxious, always watching, irritating his brothers in his attempts to keep them from harm, and Ryota flat out tells him to stay off his part of the battlefield. He’s as tall as Madara now. Madara takes a minute to remember how old he is. He misses when he was smaller.

Seeing Hashirama is the only thing that feels right. Sitting with him under the moonlight, letting their hands brush together, the closest contact they can afford, speaking in low tones about how each of their clans are doing.

It gets harder to leave every time.

Madara wishes he could stay forever.

His mind begs him for sleep that is never peaceful.

He’s so tired.

* * *

 

He dreams of Hashirama. There are over twenty swords piercing his younger body and his eyes are dull, lifeless, devoid of the emotion beating in the man’s chest like a wild drum, and Madara wakes up crying for the first time in a very long time, clutching the crystal so hard his palm bleeds.

* * *

 

He wishes he could remember what it was like to be old.

Perhaps if he did, he wouldn’t feel this anxious terror in the back of his mind when he walked alone, when he felt the tree branches closing him in, when he realized how far he was from the clan.

It was a childish thing, he thought, to be so afraid. He looked down on an army that spanned the world standing against him and felt no fear, yet now, after he’d been a child again and he wasn’t even a grown man yet, he felt nervous in the forest.

But what could he do against his own mind? What could he do against a shape on the edges of his vision that never showed itself, couldn’t be fought with fists or knives, couldn’t be drawn out through trickery or luring? What could he do when the only enemy was himself?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it move. It had to be an it. It couldn’t have been a person. He could never look at it, he could never quite see it, all he knew was that it was there.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Madara was unable to differentiate between what was real and what wasn’t.

He turned. Leaves crunched under his feet and crackled even as he stilled, staring at nothing, staring at a forest that looked as normal as any other.

He thinks he sees Zetsu, for a minute. Dark shapes and dark eyes and a razor-edged smile staring at him from the inside of a tree. Its branches look like reaching white hands and it sinks away when he looks for too long.

Putting it out of his mind, he breathed a deep sigh and turned back to where he’d been going- away, anywhere, so long as it was away from the clan- and they fled from the edges of his vision.

“Madara? What are you doing here?”

There he was, standing there looking confused, as if he was normal, as if he was real. Madara remembered seeing that face in that cave, a statue mourning the man after his death, looking at it and wondering if anything could have ever worked out differently.

 _We never saw eye-to-eye_.

“Why did you have to use his face?” he asks it, feeling ready to cry as he took an unsteady step closer. The not-Hashirama tilted his head, his frown deepening, looking even more puzzled as he moved close. He raised his hands and cupped the thing’s fake visage between his palms, feeling desperate and pained and like he was being taunted. Maybe his mind was torturing him. “Why Hashirama?”

“Madara,” it says, and presses its palms over his, like the real Hashirama would have done. But the real Hashirama was still his enemy. He had no reason to try and comfort Madara.

But, no, hadn’t he-

Hadn’t he?

“I am Hashirama.”

“You all say that you’re real,” he replies, a little bit bitterly. “Do you think it’s funny? Do you enjoy making me miss him more?”

Something in the thing’s expression softens. Madara wonders if there’s something there, some sort of ghost haunting him, or if it’s all in his head. “You’re not well,” it continues, in such a soft voice it makes him want to sob.

Madara ripped himself away without warning and glared, curling his hands in the fabric of his mantle and taking an unsteady breath. “Don’t act like you care. You…”

He sees it again, out of the corner of his eye, like every time. There’s something strange about it. Hashirama feels the same. He wonders if they are the same. If this is the thing’s way of wiggling its way into his head.

Hashirama is following his gaze, frowning, suspicious. “What are you looking at?”

Madara doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know where he’s gone or what happened to the person he used to be. He feels unsteady and off-balance and like he’s burning out.

“You should know,” he whispers, angry, angry at this thing for pretending to be ignorant. “That thing is yours, isn’t it?”

Hashirama- the thing- a dream, was he a dream? Nothing more than an illusion. The illusion looks at him with narrow eyes. “Thing?”

“Or maybe you belong to it,” Madara continues, not paying attention to him anymore, and takes a step back the way he came. He needs to get away from all four of them. “I don’t care. Don’t- don’t use his face. It won’t make me believe you.”

He has to be strong, this he knows. He can’t let it get into his head.

He turns and runs, ignoring it calling after him, back into the Uchiha territory and back into what he’d wanted a respite from in the first place.

 


	3. sweet dreams

“Hashirama?”

The query came out barely audible. Madara had taken extra care to be as quiet as he could coming to the clearing by a small river they’d been set to meet at; Tajima had been spending less nights away attending to his matters recently, and he didn’t want to sneak out on a night his father meant to come and torment him again.

Madara wished he would spend more time away at other parts of their territory. In the back of his mind, the idea of overthrowing Tajima had hung about since he was small, but it felt…faded, like an impossible challenge, after living so long once again being younger and smaller and weaker than his father. He wondered if it had been better the first time. If there had been less nightmares. If he had not goaded Tajima’s anger as often as he did to avoid any ire being thrown his brothers’ way.

The leaves underfoot made no sound as Hashirama stepped out from under the tree canopy. His hair had grown down past his shoulders. How old was he? Sixteen, wasn’t it? Madara was sixteen. Hashirama was only a month or two older than he was.

He was taller, too, he had to have grown to at least five-eight as he frowned down at Madara at his five-four. He frowned a lot nowadays. Madara hated being the cause of it. “Madara. How are you?”

Madara’s mouth twisted. He could never answer that question honestly. “I’m fine.”

Hashirama’s eyes told him he knew better. He reached out and threaded a hand through his, gently tugging him closer until they stood in the same splash of moonlight on the ground filtering through the forest. His thumb brushed slowly up and down Madara’s hand as he spread his seemingly inherent warmth to Madara’s cold body. “Do you need any healing?”

Madara opened his mouth to deny it, but failed to say anything because his head did feel as if it was pinched behind his forehead and it had been feeling as such more often now that his headaches were starting up with more intensity and Tajima had made him see Hashirama dead again. He looked down, not wanting to ask for it, and Hashirama placed a hand- warm, so warm, how was he so warm?- against his forehead, saying nothing.

He closed his eyes and leaned forward into the sensation. He stood there for a minute, feeling his headache lessen, letting Hashirama’s chakra wash the images haunting his mind away.

“I…” His voice was hardly a murmur, but they were close enough his companion could hear. “Have something for you.”

Hashirama paused, curious. Madara hesitantly reached under the collar of his yukata and drew a necklace hanging around his neck out. The cord was made of leather he’d taken a long while to collect and dye a deep, uniform brown; one of Watatsumi’s talons and one of her feathers hung on the end, preserved, glinting in the light.

“They’re…they’re Watatsumi’s,” he muttered, looking away as Hashirama stared at it in surprise. He hoped it wouldn’t disgust the Senju. “The Uchiha, we…it’s…uh…they’re…important, to the handler, and you’re…you are too, I just- um-” He let out a short breath, frustrated at how awkwardly he was explaining it. Necklaces were always a significant gift in the Uchiha, and to collect gems from his closest bird was more than one kind of declaration. Most of the time it was used for love, but he- he just didn’t know anything else that could explain how important Hashirama was to him. “It’s-”

Hashirama folded a hand over the one holding the necklace. “It’s all right,” he said, softly, “it’s important. You don’t have to say anything else. You can explain it someday when it’s easier.”

Madara knew the village would form, but he still wondered if it ever would.

“Just…don’t let anyone see it,” he whispered, because his father would scalp him if he did. It was obvious what bird it had come from. Watatsumi had a strange talon on her left claw, black with a jagged stripe of cream white partially tinted yellow down the side, that he’d chosen, along with one of her feathers, grey that was mottled with spots of black and blood red and a hazy yellow. Anyone from the Uchiha would recognize this was his token if they got a good look at it.

“I’ll take care of it.” Hashirama said it as he wrapped his hand around his, eyes humming with something else in the dark, as if he wanted to swear something else. There were flowers the size of his fingernails blooming at their feet. “I promise.”

* * *

 

Tajima had told him- very clearly- _kill one of Senju Butsuma’s sons._ Madara had only fought Hashirama, because his father well knew he couldn’t kill Hashirama because _Tajima_ couldn’t kill Hashirama.

But then the Yamanaka had attacked in the midst of their clans’ battle, and Madara had become separated from any faces he knew. It was hours before it all died down, leaving the fields littered with bodies of various origins, and he walked through the cemetery with a ball of lead in his gut as he hoped he didn’t see any of his brothers’ bodies.

He stopped near a small ravine, glancing down at the grounds below, feeling something heavy and weighted and slug-like hanging in his mind as he surveyed the destruction. He turned to the side, where a natural bridge that arched over the ravine cast shadows as the sun began to set, and froze when he saw who was crouching in the boulders down below.

Tobirama stared up at him with narrow eyes, one hand clutching a kunai, the other in front of his brother- which one was that? Itama? Kawarama?- as he silently signaled him to stay quiet.

Madara stared down at them, unable to breathe, eyes wide as Tobirama stared back up at him with readiness and caution. A sense of panic overwhelmed him as he realized- with some distant clarity making his hands move and perform signs- that his father had touched down on the field from the trees behind him, and his Sharingan whirled as he cast a genjutsu over the bottom of the ravine and prayed his skill still outmatched Tajima’s and that part of his reality wasn’t gone too.

Mouth dry, heart racing in his chest, he turned and hoped he didn’t look like he felt- pale, unsteady, nervous- watching Tajima stride across the battlefield towards him with a frown. Izuna and Tatsuya were behind him, looking no worse for wear, but for once he hardly noticed it.

“Madara,” he began, scowling, because when was he wasn’t? “What’re you doing?”

“I was just- just checking for survivors,” Madara replied, managing to avert a stutter. He tried to steel himself, tried to remind himself he could win ( _probably_ ) if it came down to it, but the way Tajima looked at him made his spine shiver. “There aren’t any here.”

Tajima’s next question came out as a demand. “Have you killed anyone?”

Madara resisted the urge to swallow. It would make him look anxious. “No.” Even if he said yes, his father would see Butsuma’s children later and know he had lied- and that would be a far worse fate than being truthful now.

Tajima glowered. “What use are you? I gave you one task, kill one of that bastard’s sons, and you can’t manage it. You can’t even manage to off his eldest.” _Like your job is_ went unspoken. “Do you think you’ll be fit to lead the clan one day, by being a weak, spineless coward?” Madara’s mouth was still dry, he still didn’t know if he could, and he still said nothing as Tajima moved closer to him with his Sharingan active. “ _Well?_ ”

A rasp made it past his throat. Madara didn’t know what he could possibly say that would placate Tajima and ensure he didn’t take his anger out on his brothers later. “I…”

Tajima’s Sharingan whirled in front of him. There was screaming in his head, drowning out everything from the way Tatsuya cringed to how Izuna looked at the ground to his father’s angry glare, and he could see nothing but all of them both dead and dying and writhing around him. His skin was crawling along his body and burning with heat and there was something clawing at him, something that felt like tree branches as Hashirama’s corpse stared at him from where it stood under the treetops, eyes gray and long fingernails made of oak, and the screaming filled his ears as familiar talons hooked themselves into his eyes and mouth and yanked.

He only realized none of it was real when Tajima seized his collar, staring into his eyes with three angry tomoe, a snarl on his lips as he held on so tightly it cut off his breathing. “If you’re so useless with these eyes, maybe I should remove them.”

Madara stared at him, able to feel the rage radiating from his stare, crumping under the weight of his killing intent as he contemplated mutilating his son’s body, and realized, with a weak start, that what he was feeling was terror.

Tajima let him go, letting him fall back to the ground, and Madara sat there and heaved out uneven breaths as the man walked away from him. Madara caught sight of his brothers, still looking away from him, and he almost raised a hand weakly in Izuna’s direction, wanting something, someone, someone familiar to grasp, anyone, but Izuna only glanced up and stared at him with sad, regretful eyes before following his father. Tatsuya stared at the ground the entire time and skittered away with hunched shoulders.

Madara sat there, alone, and felt something deep inside crumple. He wondered why his throat felt raw.

* * *

 

Toka tried not to scowl as she stormed down the hallway. It wouldn’t do to look disrespectful after a meeting with Butsuma- even if the man did irritate her to all hell. Nothing could please him; if her reports said something he didn’t want to hear, he seemed to take a personal offense at the fact she’d brought the information at all.

He always dragged things out, as well. Toka’s time was, in fact, important, and she was already late for the time she’d agreed to report back to Hashirama. He, of course, wouldn’t blame her for something that wasn’t her fault, unlike his father.

She stopped at the door to his quarters and stepped inside without knocking. Hashirama was already there, arms folded as he stared at the floor with a frown and leaned against his table; her little cousins were all gathered inside as well, quiet as she came in. Tobirama sat sideways on a chair looking grave while Itama said on Hashirama’s bed, looking pale and mildly upset as Kawarama sat with an arm around him.

Toka shut the door behind her. It pulsed when she did, a small, mild sweep of chakra she knew would keep prying ears out. “What’s the matter?” she asked, fearing something had happened while she’d been out scouting.

Hashirama’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “News from the Uchiha,” he said, a darker note in his voice, eyes stormy as he glared at the floor.

Toka’s eyes darted in between them, waiting for further explanation. Tobirama drew in a breath and let it out before beginning to speak. “Itama and I were separated from the Senju forces in the battle earlier today,” he said, eyes narrowing a fraction. “We were in hiding when an Uchiha discovered us. It was Madara.”

Toka’s frown deepened. She glanced at Hashirama, watching for his reaction, but there was no change in his expression.

“He…cast a genjutsu to shield us from his father and brothers,” Tobirama went on, sounding mildly uncomfortable and he shifted backwards in his seat, staring at the far wall. Toka’s eyes went wide in surprise. “We were able to escape unscathed.”

Confused, Toka glanced at the rest of her cousins and raised an eyebrow. “Then why be solemn?”

“H-his father…” She was almost startled when Itama spoke, sounding small as he stared at the floor. All of them were doing lots of staring at most anything but anyone else in the room. “His father…hurt him.”

There was an audible pause in the room as a stone sank in Toka’s stomach. She wasn’t stupid; she knew Madara was their enemy, but he was one of the only Uchiha- or, rather, the only Uchiha- who’d ever made it a point to try and _not_ kill any Senju on the battlefield. She couldn’t remember the last time his blade had struck at anyone who wasn’t Hashirama, and she knew he must have been aware he couldn’t defeat Hashirama. He’d gone so far as to save two of her cousins- which meant he must have still returned the affection she knew Hashirama still held for him.

“Hurt him?” she asked, voice low, feeling the need to be hushed even if no one outside would hear them.

“His father had apparently ordered him to kill one of us,” Tobirama told her, sounding as if he was mentally grimacing even if he didn’t let it onto his face. “Obviously, he didn’t. It angered Tajima when he arrived and he used his Sharingan on him.”

Toka’s stomach flipped. _Gods_. She’d fallen victim to the Sharingan before, and the memory was high on the list of the most unpleasant events of her life- of which she had many. She couldn’t imagine the experience was much better even if the victim had one of their own- especially from their own father.

“He was screaming so loud,” Itama murmured, eyes shining just a bit. He’d long since learned not to cry but some part of Toka was glad he still remembered how. The back of his hands twitched, a small motion he shared with Hashirama whenever they were itching to go and heal. “And they just…just left him there. If there were still enemies around they could have killed him right there.”

 _Rikudou_. Toka’s mouth had gone sour; she wasn’t exactly horrified- she’d heard worse horror stories about unfortunate events befalling their shinobi on the fields- but she did feel a sense of disquiet and a flicker of anger that made her want to ball her hand into a fist and put a hole in a boulder.

How anyone could do such a thing to their own kin, she didn’t know.

“It took him…a few minutes to get up and leave,” Tobirama muttered. Toka was sure it had. She’d had to come to Hitomi for healing after her own incident, and she was sure that none was available to Madara. “He didn’t look well.”

“When does he ever?”

She could tell Kawarama had said it without thinking. Hashirama sucked in an agitated-sounding breath and worked his jaw as he stared at the floor, his entire body tense like a tightly coiled spring as he pressed his fingers into the skin of his arms to try and calm himself. Kawarama glanced over at him and winced.

She grimaced and crossed her arms. She wanted to ask _What are we going to do?_ but she knew better than to think there was anything they _could_ do- at the moment, at least.

They all knew the same thing: Hashirama needed to be clan head. He was strong enough- strong enough that Butsuma had quietly started to avoid getting physical with him- and every person in their age group would follow him instead of Butsuma, perhaps even some of the older shinobi.

Hashirama wouldn’t kill his father in cold blood, even if he had hardly a good feeling for the man, but they all felt the sense of importance urging them to do more than just wait for the older Senju to die. Toka suspected, however, that it would come to a head soon enough, because not a day went by that anyone in the clan couldn’t feel the tension rising between father and son.

She still remembered a moment from a battle almost three months ago, when Hashirama and Madara had been clashing with earth and fire jutsu, that Butsuma had seen an opportunity to take aim at the Uchiha heir- looking just a little unsteady on his feet, as always- and thrown two kunai that would have lodged themselves in his jugular and his spinal cord.

Two tendrils of wood had caught them in midair before they came anywhere near Madara. Barely interrupted in the process of summoning a blast of water that would douse the flames Madara was summoning- impressive, even with his obvious waning health, there was always something that made him stand out from his brothers and father even if it wasn’t overt- Hashirama had tossed them aside, utilizing the ninjutsu he’d so rarely used on the battlefield, and they’d landed a few dangerous feet away from Butsuma.

Far enough away to be a coincidence, close enough to be a threat.

Toka had seen the look Hashirama had given his father. It was short, able to be written off as a passing glance and a grave expression from the fighting, but Toka could see the warning in his eyes.

One of her other cousins- unrelated to Butsuma’s sons- had once taken aim at Madara. Hashirama hadn’t threatened him, but he had taken him aside after the battle and spoken to him in a low tone and made sure he- and everyone else in their age group- knew that _no one_ was to attack Uchiha Madara on the battlefield other than himself, and if they disobeyed the order he would deal with them.

Hashirama lifted a hand, feeling the pendant on the necklace under his shirt that Toka suspected she knew the origins of. She had never caught a glimpse of it but he wore it day and night.

“All right,” he said, at length, tone low. “What did you find?”

Toka straightened and began to report what she’d found during her scouting, glad for the break in the silence and the direction.

* * *

 

“Do you- do you need anything?”

“No, aniki, I’m fine,” Izuna said with a sigh, not looking at him. His eyes were on the wooden floor panels below them and refused to make contact with Madara’s own and the younger Uchiha just seemed to not want to look at him at all.

“Are you-” Madara hadn’t gotten the chance to check on him, to make sure he hadn’t been hurt, to make sure he was all right after the battle. There was little he could offer but he would do the best he could for whatever Izuna asked.

“I’m fine, aniki,” Izuna told him, smiling, fake, at the wall of the hallway. “I’ll let- let you get some rest.”

And then he was hurrying away, towards his own room, and Madara clamped his mouth shut. If only he had stayed, maybe Tajima would consider to give him a night of rest, because Izuna’s sleep was more irregular now than ever.

He wanted to kill Tajima. But he couldn’t, not now, Hashirama was not yet clan head, it could make Ryota hate him, he wasn’t yet strong enough- but- was he? Why was he wondering whether he should kill his father? He should- he should- but he might take his anger out on his brothers. But there had to be a moment.

Why did he feel afraid?

He woke up in the morning with one of his falconets pecking gently at his forehead, wondering why there was a small trickle of blood dribbling from one of his nostrils. Madara didn’t know why either.

* * *

 

“Hashirama,” he says when he sees him, and he’s smiling. It feels as though it’s been years since he smiled.

“Madara,” Hashirama greets him, frowning, glancing at the falconet fluttering anxiously by his shoulder and jerking its head as if it’s trying to convey a message to the Senju. “Come here.”

There’s no questions this time, only his hands, warm, pulling Madara by his wrists until they stand close enough Hashirama places a hand on his head and lets it radiate soothing energy. Madara doesn’t know why he’s healing him, but the sensation is nice, and the induction of the comforting, kind chakra to his scarred mind makes him feel dizzy.

He leans against Hashirama in their dandelion clearing, and when Hashirama speaks again it feels like he’s waking up even though he could swear he hadn’t fallen asleep.

“Madara…” His hands clasp at Madara’s sides, and he wants, he _wants_ to ask the Uchiha to let him take him, back to the Senju compound where his father won’t be able to reach, but he knows it would break Madara’s heart to leave his brothers and it’s not safe with the Senju for an Uchiha. Not yet. “I’m going to give you some herbs. I’d like you to take them every day.”

“All right,” Madara murmurs into his collarbone, not arguing, not even thinking to ask why, and it’s perhaps the more concerning thing.

“Every day,” Hashirama reminds him, reaching into his pack for a bag of packed pills that are going to taste like wineberries when Madara bites into one that night. They are his favorite.

* * *

 

Tajima is frowning at him. He’s said nothing for almost five minutes, standing there with folded arms while Madara stood silently, trying not to fidget, trying not to think of anything, trying to look unaffected, and he wishes Tajima would just leave him to his nightmares instead of making him stand here in his office without saying anything.

“Come,” he finally says, and grabs his sword to strap around his hips and walks out the door.

There is a sense of foreboding in Madara’s mind, but there always was around Tajima, around the woods.

Tajima strode for several minutes, taking him on a straight path and only straying to wind around a few obstacles, abnormally large trees or shrubby too thick to get through. They were far from the Uchiha encampment by the time he stopped, glancing up at the full moon above and breathing in a deep breath, tapping his arms as he stood there with them folded over his chest.

“You’ve continually failed in almost every expectation I have of you,” he said, and the most intimidating part was that he didn’t sound angered or threatening; he simply sounded as if he was stating a fact. “You’ve not the strength to lead this clan if I perished on the battlefield tomorrow. Do you think I’ve not noticed the weakness you have for Butsuma’s boy?”

Madara’s throat went dry. Tajima turned, scowling, eyes staring at him in the darkness like a vulture. “This is war, Madara. You can’t afford to spare your enemies because you think one of them is your friend. That is what you think, isn’t it?”

He stopped, obviously waiting for a response, and Madara licked his lips before trying to speak. “N- no.”

Tajima twitched. “Then why have you failed to kill him, or one of his dratted brothers?”

“He’s- he’s stronger than I am. You know he is.”

“Yes, I know that,” Tajima continued, scowl deepening. “You have the potential to make your Sharingan stronger, yet you’ve failed in that too.”

Madara bit his tongue. There were multiple things he wanted to say- he was stronger than Tajima thought- his Sharingan was stronger than anyone else’s- it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t awakening it when Tajima was _torturing_ him-

The woods were creeping up on him, eyes watching him from the far edges, shadows slithering and splintering. He had followed Tajima out here and he wondered if something had followed him. His head was pounding, he hadn’t had a chance to take that pill Hashirama had given him that always made it hurt less, his eyes were starting to burn as he stared at Tajima’s grimace and tried not to pay attention to the flicker of something he could see behind him-

“You’re _useless_ ,” Tajima snapped, Sharingan whirling in anger. Madara thought of the last time it had been used on him- not in reference to his nightmares- how long ago had that been?- and flinched.

Tajima’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

“I’ve made a decision,” he continued, voice low, eyes glowing blood red across the clearing. “If you’re unable to awaken the ultimate form of the Sharingan, I no longer need you. You can serve a different purpose.”

He drew his sword, making Madara take a step back. The headache was pounding in his skull and his limbs felt heavy. He hadn’t eaten for two days. “I- what?”

“Ryota will make a fine leader when the time comes,” Tajima went on. “I will awaken the Mangekyo myself, by killing my first son. This is a sacrifice you’ll make for the Uchiha.”

 _No, no, no-_ This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He didn’t know how it was supposed to go. But it had been Izuna the first time-

Tajima was charging, and it was all too fast, too much, his sword was aiming directly for Madara’s heart-

Madara panicked. He tried to move back and activated his Mangekyo in the same breath, making pain shoot through his head and eyes as he frantically tried to summon black flames or a skeleton’s ribcage or _anything_ -

He stumbled and hit the ground, unable to process what had happened, because Tajima had stopped with his sword still raised and was staring down at him, wide-eyed, and the sword was dropping, his hands had gone limp-

Tree roots were stretching up from the ground, spearing his body in several vital areas and then some, and this- this hadn’t been how it happened. How was it supposed to happen?

There were dandelions under his hands.

“Madara.” Hashirama was landing in front of him, eyes concerned as he took ahold of Madara’s shoulders, staring at the one-tomoe Sharingan in his eyes. “Madara, can you hear me?”

Madara looked at him in a daze. “Hashirama?” he asked, feeling as if he was hearing him through water. He stared up at the Senju’s worried face, slowly coming back to himself, to the relief as the woods retreated. “You…”

He glanced at Tajima again. The light was fading from his eyes, but their gazes met one last time before the roots retreated and let his body slump to the ground. There was no love there.

Madara stared at his still corpse, still warm and bleeding onto the grass but with no life left in it. Hashirama grasped his arms and started to pull him up.

“Hashirama.”

Hashirama froze, though there was no fear in his frame, and Madara halted his halfhearted progress to follow his directions, sitting there as Senju Butsuma stared down at them from one of the trees. Hashirama, in his haste to follow Madara’s falconet’s frantic instructions, had left himself open to being followed.

“Good work,” the older man called down with a smugly satisfied look on his face when he looked at Tajima. His gaze was challenging and expecting and, more veiled, angered in his expectation of what Hashirama would do as he looked at his son. “Now finish his son.”

It took Madara a moment to realize what he meant. He froze, unaware of what he was really afraid of- he couldn’t take the both of them, he couldn’t even take Hashirama by himself, he knew Hashirama wouldn’t hurt him but he couldn’t make Hashirama give up his clan-

“No.”

He turned and looked at Hashirama. His face was set, grave and quietly furious and just as challenging, and it made Butsuma narrow his eyes. Madara’s stomach flipped.

“Then I will.”

Butsuma drew his blade. Hashirama clapped his hands together, and the very ground split open in front of Madara’s eyes as wood roared up and twisted in the trees around them. It overtook the night sky above, eclipsing the moon, a great behemoth of something like a face with burning embers for eyes staring down at them as hot steam rolled off its coils.

Butsuma stared up at the monstrosity in horror, sword falling from his grasp, and took a single step back before the wood converged on him. It rent his body apart as Madara stared, wide-eyed, unable to comprehend what Hashirama had just done.

Hashirama looked up in the direction Madara had come and narrowed his eyes. “Get up,” he ordered, though not harshly, pulling at Madara’s arms until he’d stumbled to his feet. “There are Uchiha coming. You have to go.”

“Wh- what?” Madara didn’t want to leave him. Not now. Hashirama was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that made him feel right, he couldn’t leave him now- not after- “But- but-”

“I know, Madara. I know.” Hashirama looked at him, sad and kind and too warmly, laying a hand against the side of his face and gently nudging him backwards. “But you have to go.”

“But- Hashirama-”

Hashirama made him step back, away from him, even as he weakly reached out for his hand. “Go, Madara,” he urged, sounding strained as he turned him around and shoved him forward.

Madara stumbled into the woods, his feet carrying him without his direction, heart and head screaming, and clung to the dandelions in his hand.


	4. breathed so deep, i thought i'd drown

Hikaku and Setsuna were the first ones to find him. He came stumbling through the forest, pale in the face, eyes wide, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as Hikaku took ahold of his arm and led him back to the encampment. There was shouting and bustling around him but none of it felt directed at him as he was put inside of a tent to be checked over by Naori.

He heard the din when they retrieved Tajima’s body and carried it into the yard. There was loud shouting, arguing, fighting back and forth as the Uchiha yelled out plans to invade the Senju territory and gut them in their sleep. The elders raised their voices above the younger’s and brought it all to an uneasy quiet.

The night passed him by in silence. Madara huddled on the floor, having long since warded off Naori’s efforts to check him, fiddling with the dandelions he’d carried back in his fist. They were the only tiny piece of Hashirama he had besides his necklace lying cool against his chest and he didn’t want to let them go.

The sun was rising. It shined in through the tent flap, casting the light of reality over him, and he stared out at the yard where he could see Uchiha walking back and forth and took a deep breath.

This was real. He had to do it now.

He wound the dandelions together into a bracelet around his left wrist, hidden by his draping sleeves, and stood. He walked over to the flap and brushed it aside, stepping into the light of day, raising a hand to cover his eyes as they adjusted.

Dawn had just broke, but the Uchiha were far from still. There were groups standing around outside, a few of them milling around, and the larger tent the elders were deliberating in was surrounded. Madara could feel their gazes on him immediately, fueled by interest and trepidation, as he walked towards the tent with his head held high.

This was his right. He was the only one who could lead them into the alliance- into fulfilling Hashirama’s dream.

“Mikitoro,” he yelled, voice booming over the murmuring of those around him and making them fall silent. “Rikku.”

A cane brushed their tent flap aside. Mikitoro strode out, scowling as usual, with her fellow elder not far behind. There was something expectant in her gaze.

“We’re going to move towards the north,” Madara went on, keeping his tone level and his expression empty. "Gather the clan together.”

His declaration set them to murmuring again. He could see his brothers, edging out of one of the tents, led by Ryota, who had one hand on his sword as he frowned and nudged his way through the crowd.

“Oh?” One of Mikitoro’s eyebrows rose, not in derision, not quite in curiosity. “You fancy yourself the head of the clan now?”

Madara tilted his chin up and let loose a tiny sneer. “It is my birthright. I am the eldest, the strongest of the Uchiha clan, and any who wish to challenge me are free to make fools of themselves.”

The murmuring got louder. A display of power was the only thing that would make them follow him.

“Who are you to say you’re the strongest among us?” a voice called out, one of his father’s peers, as he glared at him from the crowd. Madara turned, eyes flashing red, making eye contact as he let his Sharingan shift to its highest form.

Like applause to his ears, a round of startled gasps and screams erupted from the Uchiha around him as a behemoth soaked in his chakra flickered into existence, eerie bones folding around him like an old friend as black flames burnt in the center of its eyes.

The Susanoo…wasn’t blue.

It was red, a deep, deep red like his chakra, the color of wine and Hashirama’s sage markings and the darkest wineberries he grew for him-

It slammed the hilt of one sword into the ground at his direction, making the foundation of their encampment shake as it let out an unearthly screech. He didn’t know how it had changed, but he didn’t mind it.

“I have awakened a form of the Sharingan that none of you have achieved. Either obey,” he said, nostrils flaring as his Sharingan spun, “or pit yourself against me now, and don’t waste my time.”

There was dead silence as his Susanoo flickered. He let it begin to fade, unwilling to stress his eyes further than necessary, but let some of the flames linger and drop to the ground. He might as well let them all know that no water would put them out.

Ryota was staring at him, pale, eyes wide and a flicker of something like envy too stunned to be such in them, and Izuna and Tatsuya were looking at him like they’d never seen him before, windblown. Akira was holding onto Tatsuya’s sleeve, one hand over his mouth, and Madara’s chest pulsed with hurt at the thought that they might have been afraid of him.

Slowly, shinobi around him began to kneel. Hikaku was the first; he folded his fist over his chest in a salute and bowed his head respectfully, followed by Naori and Setsuna between them. The others that were Madara’s age quickly followed suit.

Mikitoro examined him, looking unsurprised, eyes narrow as she tilted her head in thought. Eventually, she leaned forward and bowed her head. “Very well,” she said, satisfied. “You are clan head.”

The older shinobi there, the ones who’d followed Tajima, were still uncomfortable, but pitted against the younger ones already kneeling and the elders having made a clear decision as Rikku followed suit, they had no choice but to bow.

Madara tipped his head back and forced himself to look satisfied. He wasn’t. He felt no enjoyment or pride or victory. All he felt was the stark loneliness in his chest set directly under Hashirama’s crystal.

* * *

 

He takes the clan to the plains to the north. There are no trees on the horizon for miles and miles, and with it, Madara feels a sense of release. There’s a stark nothing where the feeling of being watched usually is and he’s relieved at the sensation. He still feels as though it’s still ultimately looking for him, in the back of his mind, but for now- for now- it can’t reach him, and that is enough.

The clan is, unsurprisingly, unhappy with his decision. They seek to reap vengeance on the Senju immediately, because it is obvious what made the wounds in Tajima’s body, plenty of them have seen the Mokuton by now, but Madara knows better. He’s going to keep them far away from Hashirama and his clan- for many months- because, even if they insist on attacking the Senju when they return to their home territory, the anger will not be a fresh wound.

He must, somehow, convince them to make peace.

He stops when there is nothing near them except for the sea a few miles away, and that is where he instructs them to build their encampment. Most of them are uneasy; they’re used to the forests that provide cover, not being out in the open and having to build walls to patrol. Madara, however, feels more at ease than he has at any point except when he was with Hashirama.

It takes him a month to move the clan both to and into their new temporary home base, and he barely says a word to his brothers the entire time. It’s not because he doesn’t want to- it’s because every day, constantly, people are coming to him with something new, some concern, something about their food supply or a clan dangerously close or a danger, and Madara hardly has time to think. He’s forgotten what being clan head meant.

He stands in the center of their encampment, in front of an earthen dwelling that’s been constructed by their earth style ninja, as Ryota gives him a sour stare. He tries to be warm. “You’re…you’re welcome to-”

“I’m staying with a friend,” Ryota cuts him off, looking somehow derisive and not and uncomfortable and irritable all in one, and he walks away without anything else. Izuna glances after him, back at Madara, back at Ryota, and bites his lip.

“Thanks, aniki,” he says, and he’s trying, he is, but Madara already knows what he’s going to say as he smiles gently at him. “But I better make sure he keeps a good sleep schedule.”

Tatsuya and Akira both look up at him and then at each other and then follow Izuna away. Madara tries to ignore how lonely he feels.

* * *

 

The wooden door to his makeshift house swings open without so much as a knock. Naori- it is Naori, isn’t it? He feels like he hasn’t seen her in years- strides inside with a scroll stretched over a piece of wood and a quill in hand. The door swings shut as she drops a small pile of paper on his table. He sits there, blinking at it, confused as to why she’s there.

“This is a record of any and all supplies we have and how long they’ll last,” she says, crisply, as he sits there with a small bowl of barely-eaten rice in front of him. He’s so used to not eating that he barely can now. “I’ve instructed our scouts to map out where we can easily attain food and raw materials with little competition and where there seem to be high traffic areas. Once they report back to Hikaku, I’ll update this list with locations and remind you when we need to send squads out to retrieve something.”

Madara blinks. He’s run out of Hashirama’s medicine, and he can feel his headaches coming back during the night when he’s unable to get to sleep for wondering when Tajima’s illusions will start. All he can really think about is the time when he was seventeen and Naori pressed close to dance with him in front of the fire and showed him how to move his hips in ways someone would like. He wonders if that happened this time or last time. “What…are you doing here?”

She watches him with a vulture-like analytical gaze, eyes roving over the bags under his eyes and the thinness of his body that some don’t notice because the muscle he has hides it under his mantle.

“I’m your assistant,” she says, matter-of-factly, in a way that leaves no room for argument. “We could have gotten here sooner had there been delegation and the clan wasn’t shoving every random task in your face every five minutes. I’ll bring important issues to your attention, and I’ll handle the rest.”

Madara…does not want to handle the job on his own. He has no one else. He misses Hashirama. “All right.”

* * *

 

The dandelions harden to wood on his wrist the first night he puts them there. They look like a tiny Mokuton tree branch with miniscule threads of green running through them like veins. The flowers are closed, and the wood is a little bit lighter where the petals are, and if Madara listens very closely, he can feel the slightest hint of Hashirama’s chakra still coursing through the thing.

He can feel it in his necklace, too, and he spends his nights clinging to it and focusing on the hint of Hashirama to ignore the cold of his floor. They’ve spread rugs and tarps over the floors of their houses, low-roofed things with thick walls to stave off the heat, and attached lanterns to the walls near the ceilings. His candle flickers in one of them as he lays there, just beneath the small window he has, and he hopes he’ll fall asleep before it goes out. The dark makes him think of Tajima lurking outside his door.

The dandelions have hardened around his wrist. They won’t come off. Madara doesn’t want them to.

He fiddles with it when his hands are idle, and if Naori sees it, she doesn’t say anything.

* * *

 

Kuraokami screams when she sees him. She’s been circling their fort on the plains for an hour, he’s been told, waiting for him to return from the battle he’d gone to oversee, a scrap with the Kurama clan over the territory. (It was an easy victory; they were outmatched and their specialty was the Uchiha’s instinct.)

She descends from the sky, getting larger and larger and larger as she does, until she’s no longer a small shape overhead but a beast the height of an elephant. The Uchiha whisper to each other in a panic and press against their fences, letting Madara stand there ahead of their gates alone. They’re standing ready, but he lifts a hand and waves them off.

Kuraokami screeches again as she comes traipsing up to him. She rakes her beak through his hair, dislodging a few leaves from the local plant life, untangling a knot made by dried blood. She nudges his shoulder and lets out an unpleasant noise, livid at the state of him, making various low-pitched growling and shrieking noises as she does.

“Come now, Kuraokami, I’m fine,” he mumbles as she rakes through his hair again, wincing as one of his tangles is undone. She tosses a stick he’s never seen before aside. “Kura- I’m f- I’m- honestly-” He stumbles over himself as she continues to nudge him, chittering angrily. “Mother, please.”

She pulls away from him and lets out an unsatisfied huff. The Uchiha are gawking at him like he’s just walked up to the jaws of a monster and treated it like a small pet; the other falconers, as few as they are now, look intimidated even if they’re impressed.

She edges to his side and gives his shoulder a shove. She sounds very disapproving at how easily he’s made to stumble.

Grumbling, Madara starts walking towards the gates as he hears her shifting behind him, down to the slightly more manageable size of a stock horse, ignoring the sound of her ruffling her wings in offense. Perhaps Tajima should have found himself lucky that it was Hashirama who killed him instead of Madara’s…well.

She sleeps on the roof of his house that night. For once, he has no nightmares, and dreams only of holding Hashirama’s hand by the river.

* * *

 

Madara used to dream of drowning as a child.

He doesn’t remember much of his biological mother, not after so long- but he remembers that she was kind, and she would hold him after his nightmares. He remembers the lullaby she would hum under her breath only because he would hum it for Izuna after she was gone. He remembers, vaguely, that he was supposedly born in a flood, while the clan was attempting to migrate, and the midwife had pulled him up out of the waters rising in their tent after they’d been forced to stop.

He was never afraid of the water when Hashirama was there, even remembering his tormenting from the first time, and it was only after he stopped going to the river that Tajima focused on the way he woke from a dream gasping and clawing at his throat and thought to introduce the concept of drowning.

Sometimes, Madara still felt as if he was about to fall into the water when he went to sleep, unable to breathe, unable to find the surface as he struggled for air and invisible hands grasped at his throat.

He doesn’t go on their outings to the sea.

He dreams of drowning again, plummeting down into an endless expanse of water that gets darker as he gets farther from the surface, desperately holding both hands over his mouth and nose and trying not to breathe but feeling the water fill his lungs anyway. He twists and lashes about, frantically trying to save himself, for what feels like hours, thinking of his nightmares, wondering if this is one, thinking of the unbearable burning in his throat as tears of exertion gather in his eyes-

Hands grasp his upper arms. He manages to crack his eyes open, afraid he’s going to see another shade, but it’s Hashirama staring at him, kind, sympathetic, _safe_ , and he wraps an arm around Madara’s waist and his panic is suddenly replaced by a strange sense of calm.

He goes still in the water, barely noting that they’re in their river, and Hashirama presses their foreheads together, gazing into his eyes with something sad and longing.

He raises his hands to grasp at Hashirama’s shoulders, and the flowers on his bracelet have blossomed and turned a bright yellow that glows in the water and illuminates their faces as he presses one hand against the side of Hashirama’s.

He’s still crying, for a different reason, because Hashirama is there- right there- and Madara misses him so dearly, he wants him back so much-

Hashirama leans forward and presses their lips together. His eyes have closed, his expression is unreadable, but his lips are warm. It- it’s strange, it doesn’t feel romantic, Madara stares at him with wide eyes-

He wakes up dazed, one hand trailing its fingertips over his lips, and sits there staring at his dimly-lit wall. He doesn’t know why he dreamt of it, but there’s something warm he can’t explain blooming in his chest. Many years later, he would laugh at how flustered he feels without realizing it.

He goes back to sleep. He doesn’t have any nightmares. He spends the rest of the night in a field of dandelions, and he wants to cry again when he wakes up, because he has, never before in his nineteen years of life, slept so peacefully for so long.

* * *

 

“Why didn’t you use your Susanoo? You could have wiped them out all at once!”

Madara doesn’t react to the anger in Ryota’s voice, even if it makes him want to cringe. “It’s useless to constantly reveal your hand,” he says, trying to be sensible.

Ryota scowls at him. He’s standing in front of Madara’s table in his planning tent with folded arms, while Izuna lingers near the door with a sigh on his lips. “It’s also useless to never reveal it. You have the perfect Sharingan, but you almost never use it! Don’t you think it’s important to show the Uchiha’s might to the other clans in this area? They might be more intimidated if you would show just a little strength.”

“I do have to agree a little,” Izuna cuts in, looking apologetic at potentially upsetting him but regardless plowing forward. “A show of power here and there could help us.”

“And in addition to that,” Ryota goes on, scowl deepening, as he plants his palms on the table and leans toward him, “why the fuck won’t you send us out on the field? I can handle a squad.”

“It’s dangerous,” Madara says without thinking, not wanting to think about sending any of them out without him, and it makes Ryota snap at him.

“I’ve proven I can handle myself. You’re being paranoid.”

This time, Madara does wince. Ryota gives him a withering stare and throws up his hands, turning and striding out of the tent in a sour mood. Madara can’t remember the last time he saw him smiling. He wishes he could. He’s only sixteen. He deserves to know what it’s like to smile.

“Sorry, aniki,” Izuna murmurs, and goes after his brother in a hurry.

Madara lets out a sigh and bows his head, rubbing his forehead as he stands there over his maps of the area. Tatsuya edges closer from the doorway and eyes him, smiling hesitantly without any real happiness in it. “Uh…aniki…um…” Madara looks up at him, trying to soften his expression. “I’m happy with guard duty, really.”

“Yeah,” Akira adds, looking nervous. He’s fourteen. He’s too young. “I don’t…don’t like going out, aniki. T-thank you.”

Madara feels…almost awkward with the gratitude. “Don’t worry,” he says, trying for a smile. It feels a little thin. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” He’ll die first. “You’ve still…” He struggles for a moment to remember the name of Akira’s pigeon, and he feels terrible for it, but he’s being pulled in so many directions and he can never sleep and his body absolutely aches every moment of the day and details around him are…faded. “Still need to train Piiko, right?”

Akira’s eyes light up. Something that feels good nests in Madara’s chest. “Yeah!”

“Bring him to me tomorrow afternoon. I’ll help.”

A real, true smile shines on Akira’s face. Even Tatsuya smiles a bit, and it isn’t as large as Madara wishes, but he looks happy. “Can I watch?”

“Of course. If I look busy, just ask Naori to remind me when I’m done with what I’m doing.”

“Thank you, aniki,” Akira tells him, eyes shining, and he runs out of the tent happier than before. Madara wishes it was always like this.

* * *

 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Naori asks him one evening, when they’re sitting in what passes for their front room. She sleeps in the chambers across from his own- for productivity, she’d said- and she’s a quiet housemate. Sometimes Madara forgets she lives there at all.

“What?”

She stares at him for a moment before a Mangekyo slides into her eyes. Madara goes a bit rigid, having not expected it, and stares at her in surprise. “You-”

“I lost an important person a few years ago,” she tells him, eyes dropping to the tabletop and Sharingan disappearing. “I didn’t divulge it. I’m sure you can guess why.”

He doesn’t need to guess. Tajima would have torn her eyes out for himself.

“It was…a few years ago for me,” he murmurs, feeling compelled, since she’s told him. “I didn’t tell him either.”

They sit there in silence for a few moments.

She takes out a small metal tin from one of her belt pouches and unscrews the cap. There’s a bit of salve inside, a faded green, and it looks glossy in the low lighting. “This should help with a headache.”

His skull is pounding but he holds up one hand and averts his eyes. “I’m fine. Keep it.”

She takes some on her index finger and spreads it over his forehead. “You shouldn’t use it more than necessary. Our clan head mustn’t go blind.”

“I’m trying,” Madara mutters, and he doesn’t really know what he’s trying at, but he is. She puts the lid back on the tin and sets it down. No one comes into their dwelling anymore; no one’s going to misplace it. “Where did you…?”

She smiles. “You aren’t the only one who cares for someone in another clan,” she says, and there’s such a tenderness there that Madara- Madara doesn’t ask. She doesn’t ask him about Hashirama. He’ll extend the same courtesy.

* * *

 

Naori sits on his floor with him, on the rug that doesn’t do much to keep him warm, while they sit with the gigantic feathers Kuraokami gave him to sleep on and under propped up to make a wall between them and the rest of the room. She’s brought a small mirror from her room, sitting on a box in front of them, while she paints his face with their war paints that are really only supposed to be used for rare occasions.

He frowns when he notices her giggling. “What’re you doing?” he asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes, and she gives him a secretive smile.

“Nothing at all.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He snatches the mirror before she can stop him and examines his reflection. Instead of war paint, he finds she’s outlined his eyes in blue and painted his lips a deep wine red. There’s a pretty cherry blossom pattern winding up his cheekbone and he can’t find the energy to be irritated. A laugh bubbles out of him, and he has to set the mirror down as they sit there giggling.

He knows he’ll have to wipe it off before anyone sees him, but the novelty is still comforting.

“Here, you dashing rogue,” she says coyly, grabbing one of his handkerchiefs that sit on the box he uses to hold miscellaneous items. It’s a deep red, like Hashirama’s armor, a bit more berry-colored. “To send a message to one of your many paramours.”

He snorts. He takes the cloth and presses his lips against it, leaving a clear imprint of his lips on the cloth.

“We should use more red,” he murmurs as he stares at it, thinking of Hashirama again, of the red flowers he so often grew for him, of the wineberries he made because he knew Madara loved them, of his sage markings, of Madara’s chakra and his Susanoo. The Mokuton flowers are a bright fuchsia, a lighter shade of the hue, technically. “Why don’t we use it on more than just our fan?”

Madara has seen Hashirama’s chakra before. It’s a stunning purple befitting a royal. He wonders if their chakra would turn magenta if mixed together.

Naori hums, half in amusement, half in sympathy as she takes the handkerchief and sets it aside. “I think you’re thinking of something other than what’s befitting our uniforms.”

Madara looks away. “Come here,” he mutters, picking up the brush and avoiding the subject, planning what he’s going to draw on her face.

The next week she’s produced red dye, and his falconry glove shines a bright red in the afternoon sun. Crimson tassels appear on his mantle and belt. Rosewood veins appear in his bracelet. His handkerchief disappears, and he chastises his falconets for not simply asking if they wanted it for their nest while they chitter at him smugly and Watatsumi is not to be found as she soars towards the southern forests.

* * *

 

“We are to migrate south in three days’ time,” Madara shouts to the Uchiha gathered before him, expression blank. “We will not return, so do not leave anything behind.”

A man standing between Setsuna and Hikaku raises his voice. “Are we going to push the Senju back?” he questions, expecting, and a murmur of agreement spreads through some of them.

“We are not going to engage the Senju. War against them is pointless if we cannot drive them out and only results in more of our shinobi dead.”

Several people frown at him. Ryota grits his teeth as he stands in the line near the front, eyes narrowing as he glares. He’s still bitter- at the offense, rather than any personal grief over Tajima- and Madara knows he wants to kill Hashirama. He has to hope that Ryota will come around.

“They killed our last clan head,” someone points out, “you just want to let that slide?”

“Immature ideals of vengeance is what gets our children killed,” Madara says dully, letting his face be as flat and unamused as he feels, and the person who spoke winces. “Do you wish to attack and start another useless battle? See more of your brethren bleeding out at your feet? Jump into more conflict like mindless war mongrels and dogs without a scrap of common sense? Do you wish me to lead the clan into such things?” He’s never been good at speeches, but he is good at dressing people down. There’s silence around him. “Don’t bring suggestions to me if they’re mindless and inane.”

He spins on his heel and walks away. Naori starts yelling out orders behind him, sharp and commanding, and no one thinks to disobey her. She displays the unique quality of both frightening people into obeying and making them want to please her; Ryota had snapped at her, once, and she’d given him a tongue lashing that left him red in the ears but just smiled gently and patted his head and told him everyone had bad days when he apologized the next day.

Madara took steady, calming breaths as he approached his house to pack his belongings, thinking of how many months it had been and how eager he is to see Hashirama again. He wants to make the alliance- he wants it to be his reality already- but he knows he must wait. It feels like torture.

* * *

 

Hashirama is smiling at him from where he sits on the riverbank. Madara doesn’t feel afraid of the water, somehow, not with Hashirama there, and Hashirama is the only thing he can focus on. He’s beautiful, chakra so vivid and enormous and soothing, and he looks content- as if all he needs to do is smile at Madara to be happy.

Madara sits a few feet from him, staring at him while they say nothing, wishing the dream were real. He’s not wearing his armor, only a loosely-tied yukata with short sleeves, and it makes him look so very relaxed and his arms and chest are glinting in the sun-

Hashirama leans forward again, and before Madara knows what they’ve done- he barely even knows what they’ve done- he barely even registers where they are- their lips are touching again, and there are hands all over his body and a strange heat traveling up his spine. He’s pressed into the ground of the riverbank and there are sharp gasps and cries in his ears that he realizes are his own, and Hashirama is pressing between his bare legs and pulling his thighs apart as they rock and he’s there, close, right there-

Madara wakes in a confused daze, the details of the dream hazy, and he lays there for a long while staring at his ceiling wondering why he would feel and dream of such things. He lets the details be lost to the grasp of sleep as he drifts off again. He gets up in the morning and gets moving, back towards the south, ignoring everything but putting one foot in front of the other.


	5. skip a hit, don't make a sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> insp: https://byelawliet.tumblr.com/post/172506576901/sittin-in-the-hot-seat

Breathing in the forest air again was…nice. Madara had lived there most of his life, and some of his better memories were associated with these forests.

The only downside was that the feeling of being watched was back again with a vengeance; from the first moment he’d spotted trees on the horizon, it had grown and grown until that oppressive weight was back in his mind, waiting for him to snap.

He tried not to focus on it. It wasn’t real- it was nothing but a delusion, he thought, some leftover component of… _before_.

Yet he couldn’t help but miss the plains. It had given him a much-needed break of- of- _something_. Clearheaded-ness. His visions had died down and he was left only with his nightmares, usually, but even now as he trekked through the woods he felt as though the shadows were watching him.

He tried not to focus on all of it.

He tried not to focus on much of anything other than plowing forward and, somehow, convincing his clan that descending on the Senju encampment in the dead of night to gut them all in their sleep wasn’t the right plan.

* * *

 

There are three groups of Uchiha, thirty each, sitting on the floor of their main tent, kneeling there in rows with walk spaces in between while a few more line the back wall. There are a couple shinobi standing guard at each of the two doors, and a few more groups gathered compactly outside the doors along the tent walls. They can hear his voice from just outside- the tent material is light, conductive to sound, and meant for meetings- and it’s one of the more efficient ways of speaking to a bulk of the clan. There are, of course, still Uchiha patrolling the limits of their encampment, and some who are forced to sit further away from the tent and thus cannot hear very well, but it’s a more effective method than trying to shout at them all at once outside.

It’s dark out, adding to the quiet around him; Uchiha gatherings are usually held at night to ensure as many can hear as possible. He doesn’t quite know what to say as he looks at his clan members from the chair that’s meant for him, slightly elevated so his voice will be thrown, made of stone with tomoe carved into the back that he’s had painted red. It’s a throne, if anything. He wonders if there are still those who believe he stole it.

Incense burns from the pots in front of the Uchiha, sending tinted smoke wafting through the air. It’s been dosed with a miniscule amount of herb from Sora-ku, meant to aid in keeping a calm atmosphere, but he feels anything but calm and he suspects most of his clan members feel the same.

It’s their first night back in the forests they were spawned from. He knows it’s going to come up sooner rather than later.

“If anyone has anything they wish to bring up as a matter of concern, you may state so now,” Naori, standing to his right with her hands folded behind her waist, says, after ten minutes of explaining groups’ duties and areas they need to reestablish themselves in, and her tone is daring anyone to be unruly. He’s mildly thankful for it.

Hikaku sits in the front row in the middle group. He’s been taking notes the entire time, probably due to the fact he was Naori’s assistant, as Madara’s managed to guess by now. He reckons the man’s good at it if how smoothly things have been running is an indicator.

Beside him, a man with brunette-tinted raven hair speaks up. He doesn’t look particularly angry, but his face is pulled into a dissatisfied frown. “Are we not going to address the Senju?”

Naori raises an eyebrow at him. “What is there to address?” she replies, as collected as anyone could be. “Madara-sama has already declared that we will not actively pursue a conflict against them. If they strike at us first, then certainly, we will defend ourselves, but needlessly jumping into conflict has gotten many Uchiha killed when their deaths were entirely unnecessary. That is not a legacy I think any of you want to continue.”

She has such a way of stating things that induces guilt where it’s due and makes several people wince. Madara is, again, grateful for her taking the weight, because he is good at being enraged but not good at winning people over.

“We are also unaware of the Senju’s plans,” Naori continues, voice like a bladed hand fan opening, lethal and innocuous. “We’ve received intel indicating they’ve tried to mitigate conflicts with other clans in this area and acted largely on the defensive, and they could very well have no plans to attack the Uchiha at all. Attacking preemptively in paranoia could destroy a potential cease of conflict between us.”

“Cease of conflict? You mean _allying_ with the _Senju_?” someone else asks, voice riddled with disgust. Along the back wall, Madara sees Ryota glower. Izuna, beside him, is watching with a frown.

Naori looks down her nose at the speaker. “If I meant ally-ship, that is what I would have said,” she says in a scathing tone, drawing a wince like a knife drawing its victim’s breath. “There is no reason to turn up your nose at the opportunity to not draw your blades against a clan that has the strength to kill many of our own in a single battle. An incessant need for pride and arrogance will get your brother and child killed. Even becoming their allies would behoove us more than being their enemies.”

“I have to concur,” Hikaku broke in, drawing as many eyes as could see him to his form. He’d been one of the more respected lieutenants in the clan, Madara remembered. He feels as though he can remember more faces more clearly, more names, and he feels a bit more grounded in reality when he does, as if he isn’t simply floating through it. “What ultimate use is there in more conflict? Gaining more land? Access to more materials? What use is there when the same result could be achieved with less lives lost and less blood spilled? I would gladly bite my pride if it meant keeping more of the Uchiha alive. Maybe being their allies is a grandiose idea, but I would have no problem with simply existing near each other’s territory and not antagonizing each other.”

“The Senju have killed more of us than anyone else,” a woman to the far right complained with a frown. What was her name- Kotori, Madara remembered her, he remembered being young with her. “I’m not saying we should seek revenge, but can we just let that go?”

“Remember that we’ve in turn killed just as many Senju,” the man beside Hikaku replied, starting to grimace. Setsuna. “I don’t like the Senju more than any of us, or trust them as far as I could throw one in their armor, but I have to admit we’re not exactly the guileless victims. Anything we could say about them, they could most likely say about us.”

That made more than a few people look sour, but no one argued with it. A woman near the door raised her voice, tentative and hesitant, and her question made everyone in the room pause. “The…the Senju leader. I’ve heard he’s tried to make ceasefires with other clans before. Madara-sama…knows him, doesn’t he?”

Madara could have heard a hairpin drop in the entire compound. His throat closed as everyone in the room turned to look at him. Ryota’s expression dropped into a scowl as he folded his arms, though it didn’t look entirely focused on Madara, and Izuna’s frown deepened.

Their eyes were staring up at him, waiting, anticipating, some of them disapproving and some of them curious. He cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he began, speaking as slow as he could without looking like he was stalling, to give himself a minute to think. “I know Senju Hashirama personally.”

Faces in the room perked up and gazed at him in interest. Madara didn’t know how much Tajima had told the clan about his friendship with Hashirama, but there were certainly rumors floating around that he’d known the Senju clan head when he was younger, so Tajima’s tongue must have wagged occasionally. Some people whispered that Madara still kept in contact with the Senju.

Some people said that he’d purposefully sought Hashirama out to kill him and ended up deciding not to; some said he’d tried to convince Hashirama to desert to the Uchiha, or that Hashirama had tried to convince him to come to the Senju. Some said they’d been friends; some said they had just been two boys who kept meeting coincidentally and decided not to kill each other as a courtesy for conversation.

None of them were quite right.

He swallowed as he stared at his clansmen, knowing he could only say so much about Hashirama without making them think he was too involved with the Senju. “He is not an evil man,” he finally settled on, and the way Naori’s shoulders relaxed told him that was a safe route. “He has reason, and does not wish for war. I know little of the rest of his clansmen, but should the concessions and compromises be fair, I doubt he would object to an agreement not to intrude on each other or cause incidents.”

He could hear a few people in the back murmuring. Ryota’s eyes were still narrow.

“For now,” Naori said above them, firm, allowing no arguments, “we will wait. Having patience is an important component of any strategy, and we need more information before making a move. Keep to your assignments and do what is asked of you. Dismissed.”

Madara stood from his seat after she’d finished, not wanting to stay longer than what was required, and left the tent as quickly as he could without looking as though he was trying to be quick about it. The incense was starting to make him a bit lightheaded.

* * *

 

The first dream had left him confused upon waking up. It had all made sense in sleep, but in the light of day he felt a bit befuddled at himself and his actions- but he knew something was there, something about Madara that made him special, and even if he could hardly remember the dream at all the next morning that revelation stayed with him.

The Uchiha clan’s absence had left little competition in the area for the Senju. Other clans had moved in to try and take over the territory, but without any Uchiha to fight with, the Senju’s strength never varied much and they were easily pushed out.

Hashirama was worried. He knew Madara was physically safe- every time he focused on his necklace he could feel the Uchiha’s life force thrumming from afar- but he didn’t know why he’d taken the clan so far away. He suspected he just needed to get away from it all, time to recuperate and figure out what he was going to do.

Part of him was worried Madara wasn’t planning on coming back. Hashirama didn’t know if his heart could take never seeing Madara ever again.

However, he received some amount of reassuring when Watatsumi- she’d grown even more since he’d last seen her- appeared on his windowsill as he was retiring for bed one night, a red handkerchief held delicately in her talons. He’d felt a jolt of excitement when he’d seen her; though he was a bit disappointed when she carried no letter, he’d felt…a variety of feelings when he took the cloth and found a very clear imprint of Madara’s lips on it. He couldn’t tell if it had been intentional or not. It didn’t seem like something Madara would do, even if Hashirama…wouldn’t mind if he did.

And that was another realization that sent all kinds of confused feelings coursing through his body. The realization that he felt the temptation to press his lips to the cloth in the same spot, where Madara’s had been, to leave his own tinted with the same material that had coated Madara’s.

He’d brushed over it with his thumb and it had come away a deep, wine-tinted red with a hint of berry tone. He couldn’t help but imagine Madara wearing that shade, how it would make his lips pop against his pale skin, how it would stain Hashirama’s mouth red-

The second dream happened. He dreamt of their river, of Madara, of pressing him into the bank and making cries of pleasure rather than pain spring forth from his lips-

The second dream…unveiled a few things about his feelings. He was still confused, in some ways, but he knew a few things for certain: Madara was important to him, and Hashirama loved him deeply. He not only wanted but _needed_ to have Madara in his life, safe, in an environment he could stay that way.

Their village.

When he received word that the Uchiha had returned, he immediately ordered those in his clan not to antagonize them and to avoid all conflict. He was told of a few tense sightings in passing; a group of his lieutenants spotted a group of Uchiha across a river and stood there for a few minutes doing nothing before retreating, and another group passed a few Uchiha in the forest and made a point to blatantly avoid them.

The Uchiha didn’t attack them. He was certain it must have been because Madara told them not to.

It may have been too early. Preemptive. But Hashirama had to try, and he hoped that the tiny pigeon that was the best of the Senju’s messenger birds would be able to carry his message into the Uchiha territory without any issues.

The handkerchief matched his armor well, and no one ever asked why he’d started to wear it around his arm.

* * *

 

The Uchiha were muttering about the few encounters they’d had with Senju in the forests. Madara grimaced every time he heard them; there’d been no clashes, but it was still unsettling.

However, at least it seemed to aid in making a few want to change their minds. There were those who still hated the Senju, but he could see more of his clansmen start to walk around with contemplating expressions rather than strictly distrusting or irritated ones. The majority were uncomfortable with the Senju’s presence yet more of them were curious as to whether a ceasefire was possible.

He’d been debating with himself for days over how to broach the topic of a treaty, let alone creating a village together. He’d also gone back to hardly being able to sleep, and being hounded by night terrors in the times he could manage it. His body ached and his stomach was empty most often due to his inability to eat more than a bite at a time. He couldn’t seem to keep much down with the anxiety haunting his mind.

They’d had another meeting, debated about the Senju for a good half hour, and his vision was starting to get blurry in the way it did when he was exhausted as he traipsed towards his tent. The sun was beginning to go down and his eyes absolutely _ached_. It had grown into a headache that felt like it had possessed his skull.

Thus, he was more than a little tired when he stumbled into his tent. He noted the unfamiliar pigeon sitting on his desk, having come in through the open flap window, and grimaced, walking unsteadily over to it. He untied the piece of paper on its leg and sent it off.

He unfurled the message and squinted. In the dying light, with his exhaustion, his vision wasn’t what it was even during the day. The text scrawled on the paper was neat but small.

He groaned and set it down, laying a hand against his cheek and grimacing into it. It would have to wait until morning. His head was _pounding_ and he couldn’t read it.

He stumbled over to his cot and sank down, passing out almost as soon as he settled on the material. Visions of clawed faces and fanged vines assaulted his mind in sleep as the feeling of being chased like prey descended on him.

* * *

 

“This seems like a bad idea,” Izuna murmured, though he didn’t slow his pace.

“I just want to ask him what _exactly_ he plans on doing besides _nothing_ ,” Ryota snapped, making his brother sigh. He wanted to know, too, but from the way his older brother had looked when he’d retired for the evening, asking in the morning would probably prove to be more fruitful.

Ryota stormed through the door of Madara’s tent without asking. He stopped when he’d stepped inside, making Izuna almost run into him. He stepped around his brother and paused when he found Madara already asleep- a fitful sleep, as usual. He was on his back, face turned towards the door, and one hand was curled in the blankets beneath him while the other grasped at the fabric on his abdomen and sweat gathered on his forehead. His face looked more pained than Izuna could remember seeing him in months.

Izuna cringed. Madara’s nightmares had never seemed to go away and he couldn’t help but feel bad about it.

Ryota let out a frustrated sigh. He turned away, unwilling to interrupt his brother’s sleep only to stress him further, even if he was feeling angry at the moment. They were still brothers, and he could save his ire for Madara’s waking hours.

His eyes caught on something on the desk. It looked like a missive, a small piece of paper sitting on twine that had clearly been used to tie it, and he found himself drifting over to it out of sheer curiosity. It didn’t look like anything official.

“What’s that?” Izuna said, not bothering to lower his voice. Madara was the deepest sleeper of their family, especially when he was in the midst of a nightmare, and he typically only woke up because of large chakra flares that would signal an attack or emergency.

Ryota took the paper in his grasp and narrowed his eyes at it. “A message,” he replied, skimming it, and began to read aloud. “M, for Madara, probably. Please meet me tonight in the clearing just south of the west river where it breaks in two towards the sea and lake. There’s no signature, just… a drawing of a dandelion?”

And a rather accurate one, Izuna noted, as if it hadn’t been drawn but simply absorbed into the paper. “Tonight? Do you think that means tonight-tonight?”

“I don’t see when else it could be. This still smells of ink.”

“But Madara…” They both paused as they glanced over their shoulders. Madara tossed his head in his sleep, expression curling in something like fear, and let out a groan. “…probably passed out before he could think about going,” Izuna amended with a wince. “Who do you think he was supposed to meet?”

They were both silent for a moment, wondering. “Well,” Ryota said, narrowing his eyes as he dropped the note and gave his brother a pointed look. “There’s one way to find out.”

Izuna’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean…”

“This implies there’s only one of them, and there’s two of us, so we outnumber them if it comes to that. Let’s go see what Madara’s hiding.”

* * *

 

The night felt too relaxed; the darkness didn’t feel tense or dangerous, and the emptiness of the woods almost lulled Izuna into a false sense of security. He knew their task was potentially dangerous, but if Madara knew who he was meeting, there was a good chance they were a potential ally. He kept on guard regardless, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he stood there in the clearing under the moonlight.

“I don’t sense anyone,” Ryota murmured, though they both knew their senses weren’t always the best indicator. Madara was the only true sensor of their family. He could sense them from a hundred miles away as clear as day- a fact he’d often abused in games when they were children.

Izuna hummed in reply. They stood there in silence, waiting, and he was just starting to wonder if maybe the note had been old after all when he saw _him_.

The moonlight shining down from the sky glinted on the collar of Senju Hashirama’s renowned red armor as he stepped out from the shadows of the trees on the other side of the clearing, his very skin seeming to hum with energy. His expression was mostly blank, but something like a frown came over it when he spotted them, and Izuna knew, suddenly, why exactly Madara had told no one who he was supposed to meet.

He heard Ryota’s breath catch in his throat. He went for his sword on his hip, wrapping his hand around the handle and jerking to a stop when Izuna seized his arm with a vice grip. An enraged look came over the other Uchiha’s face, but he wasn’t stupid, even if he was rash- he glowered at the Senju across the clearing, but didn’t move from Izuna’s side.

His own eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare to avoid thinking about the _terror_ in the back of his mind. Senju Hashirama was the only Senju his father had never been able to kill. He’d gone head to head with Butsuma, perhaps been equals with the man, but his eldest son- Tajima would have more than likely died than entered a stalemate with him like he usually had with Butsuma. Honestly, Izuna had no idea how Madara had fought Hashirama so many times- he could only assume it was because they didn’t want to kill each other.

He may not have seen the Senju fight recently, but he’d heard plenty of horror stories about the monstrosity the man called his ninjutsu and he’d seen battlefields where it’d been left behind.

If Hashirama did try and kill them, they wouldn’t stand a chance. He knew Ryota must have known it too.

“Where’s Madara?” the man finally spoke, glancing around with his eyes as if Madara would step out of the trees.

“He couldn’t come,” Ryota bit out, glaring at him. Izuna watched suspiciously as the Senju frowned, surveying the both of them with a strange sort of curiosity.

“Is he all right? Did something happen?”

“Why should you care?” Ryota snapped. “He was unable to come. That’s all that matters. What did you ask him to meet for?”

Hashirama paused, indecision flitting across his face. He looked them over again.

Then he reached into the pouch hanging from his waist and pulled out a long, thin scroll. “Can you take this to him? It’s urgent.”

“Why should we trust anything from you?” Izuna demanded, feeling his cackles rise. The scroll could’ve been rigged to explode, for all they knew.

“I promise it’s nothing untoward. You can examine it right here, if you wish,” Hashirama insisted, placing the scroll on the ground and stepping back. He gave them a beseeching look. “Please. It’s imperative that Madara reads it.”

Izuna shared a glance with their brother. He could tell he didn’t like it either, but he nodded with a grimace anyway. “All right, then. Leave.”

Hashirama paused. He stared at them for a moment, as if doubting they would fulfill their agreement, but turned and disappeared into the trees and left them alone in the clearing.

Izuna let out a sigh of relief. Ryota set his jaw and strode forward, picking up the scroll, instantly unfurling it and activating his Sharingan to better read it in the darkness. “What does it say?” Izuna prodded, curious.

Ryota glanced up at him with a dark scowl. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

* * *

 

“Are you _kidding_ me, Madara?” Ryota yelled as he stormed into the tent, making Madara- who was awake, no doubt having woken from his nightmare, sitting on his cot with his forehead in his hand- look up with a start.

“What-?”

“This,” Ryota snapped, tossing the scroll at him. He flinched but caught it before it hit him in the face, pulling it open with a frown as Ryota went on. “We found that message you had. I didn’t realize you knew Senju Hashirama well enough to go off meeting him alone in the dead of night.”

Madara froze. He seemed to get paler as his eyes widened, and Izuna would have winced in sympathy but he was none too happy himself as he stood there with pursed lips and folded arms.

“How did you-”

“I told you. We found that message on your desk, and you were obviously not going yourself,” Ryota continued angrily, making Madara glance at his desk with a frown.

“You mean that you…” He trailed off as he blanched in realization, glancing jerkily at them. “You went-?”

“Yes!”

“I doubt the clan is going to accept that, aniki,” Izuna interrupted him, looking disapproving as he frowned. “Nor should we. The Senju are no more trustworthy than dogs.”

“You _know_ they won’t accept it. It’s nothing more than a pipe dream-”

“Enough!” Both Izuna and Ryota jumped, startled at the sudden anger in Madara’s tone as he looked up with a glowering expression. He stood from his cot, rolling the scroll up, and though he was no taller than either of them he seemed ten foot tall in that moment. “This is my business, that you’ve intruded upon. Leave me be and return to your tents.” Ryota opened his mouth, but he was cut off. “ _Now_.”

The two fell awkwardly silent. Izuna glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye, and found him looking just as cowed as he felt. He gave a jerky nod and turned around, stepping out into the night, both of them not saying another word as they left.

Madara stared at the tent flap as it settled back into place and let out a weary sigh. He sank back down onto his bed, lowering his face into his hands, berating himself for being so stupid. He could have seen Hashirama tonight, had he just been able to read the damn missive, and he’d been so unwise as to leave it out where anyone could see.

And now he had Hashirama’s peace offering in his lap, and he had to do something with it.

He was so tired.

* * *

 

The Uchiha were already gathered in the meeting tent when he left his the next morning. They turned and watched him as he approached, silent, judging, confused, curious; he tried his best to ignore them as he went inside, withholding a grimace when he found Izuna and Ryota frowning at him from the back. Naori glanced over at him and nodded from her place beside his chair.

Madara stepped up to his seat and sat down, crossing his legs and trying to appear nonchalant. Sitting there felt all too much like being interrogated nowadays.

“We all already know what happened,” someone spat out before Naori could speak, making the tent go even more silent. “What are we going to do with the Senju?”

Naori gave the man who’d spoken an icy stare. No one said anything else, only cringing at her ire.

“I think we deserve to know exactly what was in that contract your brothers brought back,” Kotori spoke up, considerably calmer. “Is it true the Senju want to make a _village_ together?”

Even the idea sent a murmur of discontent through the crowd. Madara repressed a wince and folded his hands together. “The contract itself is nothing more than a ceasefire,” he corrected. “A ceasefire for the purpose of working on a larger treaty that involves the creation of a settlement between our two clans that would serve to protect civilians in the Land of Fire and garner business for the clans.”

“Well? Are you going to take it?”

The murmuring stopped. They all stared at him, waiting, watching him with narrow eyes.

“I have not yet decided.”

“You can’t _possibly_ be thinking of accepting!” another woman exclaimed, representing the incredulous expressions he could see on many of them. “They’re probably planning on stabbing us in the back!”

“I do not make any decision lightly,” Madara snapped, nostrils flaring, and more than a few of them flinched. “I have not led this clan astray since I became clan head. Don’t assume I will now.”

“If Madara-sama chooses to accept this ceasefire and _discuss_ the possibility of a more permanent treaty,” Naori carried on, laying emphasis on the fact it was, to the clan, only a possibility, “it is our responsibility to support his decision. Doing otherwise is an act of mutiny.”

There was a distinctly uncomfortable note on the air after that. Eyes were darting about, but no one was willing to challenge him outright.

Naori surveyed the indecision on the faces before her and pursed her lips. She glanced at Hikaku, who stood near the tent flap to Madara’s right, and gave him a short nod; he disappeared outside without a word.

“If you’ll remember,” she began, voice low and incensed, “less than two days ago a group of ours ran into a group of Uno shinobi in the forests to the south. Do all of you remember what they reported?”

The Uchiha before her looked away from her judgmental gaze, training their eyes on the walls and floor.

“The Uchiha were the ones who attacked first,” she went on, just as angry as before, as Hikaku and Setsuna stepped inside carrying a stretcher covered with a blanket. Realizing what she was doing, Madara hid a grimace in his hand. “And oh, of course, we _won_ the battle. But at what price?”

Hikaku reached for the blanket with a solemn expression, quietly respectful of what was under his fingertips as he pulled it back and revealed the body of a child. He couldn’t have been more than ten. Madara shut his eyes.

“Children leaving the encampment is strictly forbidden, yet when this child snuck along with one of the groups it was seen as a chance for _growth_ and _maturity_ and resulted in this. Is this what you want?”

No one said a word. Hardly any of the Uchiha could look at the corpse, and Madara suspected there was a line of ashamed faces outside that Hikaku had passed.

“If there is a true chance for peace, you owe it to your children to take it. Unless you wish your pride get more of them killed.”

The child looked like Ryota had when he was a boy laid out on a stretcher never to walk again. Madara risked a glance at him, finding him along the back wall, standing with his head bowed and something anguished with unsureness on his face. Izuna was staring at the ground, eyes closed as he wrestled with something that looked like anger.

Madara ended the meeting there, telling them he would take two days to deliberate on the matter. He was so tired.

* * *

 

Anywhere he went, he heard his clan members talking- arguing- in hushed tones that became more hushed when they saw him coming near.

They still didn’t trust the Senju. That was to be expected. What he hadn’t been expecting was the amount of them that wanted to take the treaty.

“What do we have left to lose?” he heard a friend of Kotori’s hiss, spurned by the desperation of seeing her nephew dead on the ground. “What could possibly be so bad about _not_ fighting? I’m tired of our children dying!”

“It could provide us security,” Hikaku told a group, having cemented Setsuna’s opinion in his favor. “The two strongest clans in the region, united under one banner.”

“I’m tired of fighting.”

“I’m tired of war.”

“There has to be some way to end all this.”

“Even if they do double-cross us, at least we’ll be able to say we’re the ones who tried.”

At least half the clan was in his support, even if they weren’t happy about it. Tatsuya and Akira watched quietly from their tent most days and didn’t offer their opinion, knowing Madara wanted to take the treaty and Ryota and Izuna didn’t. Izuna was more indecisive than Ryota, but the both of them still didn’t trust the Senju enough to live in the same region as them.

Madara brushed a hand down his face as he sat at his desk, listening to the ache in his bones. He felt as if everything as happening much too fast and out of his control. He hadn’t expected his brothers to meet Hashirama, to bring back a contract, to tell the entire clan about it. Now half his clan was whispering about accepting the ceasefire and the other half was simply simmering in their distrust and dissatisfaction.

He rubbed his eyes, which had begun to ache as he read over his paperwork in his dying candle light. He was so tired.

He took a deep breath. He knew he couldn’t expect it all to go perfectly- for all his clan members to trust the Senju. But at this point, what other choice did he have? If he backed out, he would only add to the distrust they had for the Senju, and agitate those who wanted peace.

He didn’t want to back out. He wanted to have Hashirama near again.

He knew there was only one thing he could do; right or wrong. He had to plow ahead as best he could and hoped it went right.

“I’ve made a decision,” he called to his clansmen the next morning, more of them packed in the tent than before, standing in front of his throne with his head held high even if he felt none of the confidence he was exuding. Naori, beside him, looked knowing. “It’s time for this war to end. We will accept the Senju’s offer and parlay. Should everything proceed fairly, we will create this settlement with them and create a place where our children can grow up safe.”

Heads began to nod. A portion of the group clapped in response, even if some of them looked grim, while the others sat there looking unhappy but not willing to make trouble about it. They would follow him, even if it was begrudgingly. The Uchiha valued the clan too much to split down the middle and erupt into a civil war; it was against their nature.

He turned and left the tent, leaving Naori and Hikaku to make preparations, and let out a sigh as soon as he was within the privacy of his own again. Whether it was right or wrong, he’d done it, and there was no turning back now- not after he’d sent word to Hashirama to set a meeting.

He hoped all went well. It had to. He would make sure it did. He needed to see Hashirama again, or he might very well suffocate under the weight.


	6. proof it's not a dream

Madara would admit that his hands were trembling as he walked towards the table. Hashirama’s expression was calm but his eyes were bright, happy to see him, focused on his own as they met in the middle.

He tried to keep himself calm as Naori pulled out his chair for him, Tobirama doing the same for his brother, and he sat down, something in his abdomen quivering as Hashirama spread a scroll out on the table. He was right there, warm, safe, steady- god, Madara hadn’t seen him in so long- long fingers expertly unfurling the scroll and setting a quill down for Madara to use and bright brown eyes staring at him as he tried to stay expressionless.

“Only one guard?” the other man behind Hashirama said- was it Itama? Kawarama?- as he smiled. Madara froze for a moment, a deep fear he’d mistakenly insulted them taking hold of him. “You must trust us!”

He realized then the man- young man, just barely not a boy anymore, he looked so _young_ \- was trying to joke, trying to- what was the word, break the ice, and he relaxed as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Trust me, Senju-san,” Naori said from behind him, wearing a polite yet razor-edged smile as her eyes sparkled. “I could take you both.”

The man’s smile faltered, out of nervousness rather than offense, and he and Tobirama both shifted uncomfortably. It was a minute gesture, but Naori could unnerve the best of them.

Hashirama chuckled. It drew Madara’s attention back to him, and he couldn’t help but stare as Hashirama smiled at him. He wore no armor, only the striped hakama and green robes the rest of the Senju wore, a small gesture to the Uchiha who had none. “I’ve kept the initial agreement short, a simple armistice, and we can iron out the details afterwards. Go ahead and read it.”

Madara’s eyes drifted down to the table. He reached out and tugged the scroll to him by its edge, skimming the lines, feeling the stares of his clansmen on his back as he sat there. There were some who had been convinced, who wanted peace, but he knew there were those- more than the first time- that were unhappy with what he was doing. They always were.

He finished skimming the agreement- basic, as Hashirama had said, a ceasefire that would last the month while they planned- and reached for the quill and signed it on autopilot. He would have agreed to almost anything at that point.

Hashirama stood from the table. He glanced down at him with an encouraging smile, and it made him realize he needed to stand. He hurriedly got up as Hashirama extended his hand and stared at it for a moment before reaching out and taking it. The touch of Hashirama’s skin made his entire body shiver.

“The Senju and the Uchiha are at peace,” Hashirama said, loud enough for the others to hear, and Madara was grateful for it because he couldn’t manage to say anything, only staring at him and hoping his face didn’t look too desperate. He raised his hand to encompass the clans but stared at Madara with a look in his eyes that assured him to wait just a little bit longer. “The Senju have prepared a banquet for both clans. Today we will break bread together; tomorrow we’ll begin creating our new home.”

Madara could hear people murmuring in agreement, and something distant in the back of his mind hoped some of them were Uchiha, but all he could focus on was the warmth of Hashirama’s hand as he pulled him towards a tent that been strung up for the clan heads to deliberate in.

* * *

 

Madara’s breathing had gone a bit erratic by the time he walked through the tent flap, and it made him stumble as he reached for Hashirama with shaking hands. The Senju stepped into him and steadied him, wrapping both arms around him as Madara clung to the cloth on his shoulders. “Madara,” he said, soothing, letting him press as close as he could. “It’s all right.”

“Hashirama,” Madara rasped, pressing his face into the man’s chest and taking in a shuddering breath. He still smelled of soil and fresh air and something sweet on the air in summer. He closed his eyes and let the skin beneath his forehead warm his face that had gone cold from the winter air.

Hashirama reached up and curled a hand in his hair, gently, maneuvering close to his skin and kneading the back of his head. His hands had started to leak quiet green chakra that made Madara groan and slump into him. He could feel it radiating from Hashirama’s flesh, working through his muscles, soothing the aching and soreness. “It’s all right. We never have to separate again.”

Madara wrapped an arm around his neck and clung to him with a strength he’d forgotten he had. He’d been so tired, all the time- he was still tired- but he couldn’t feel the cold anymore and everything felt infinitely better, as if he no longer had to worry about anything to do with his brothers or the clan or peace. Hashirama’s chakra worked out a knot in his shoulders at the same time the sore spot to the right of his spine that had been dogging him for months disappeared, and it made him groan again as his legs went to jelly. Hashirama tightened his grip so he wouldn’t fall over and gently tugged at the knots in the curls under his ears.

“We have to go outside in a minute,” he said into Madara’s ear, quiet, easy. “Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine,” Madara mumbled, unsure of what he needed to say. “I just- I need-”

“It’s all right. I’ll stay right here.” Hashirama moved a hand to his back and brushed the other down his arm. “I’ll be right here.”

Madara nodded, saying nothing, and let Hashirama lead the way to the door, focusing on the hand on his back as if it were a lifeline.

* * *

 

There were two long, long tables meant for the Senju and Uchiha to sit down at. The Uchiha watched the Senju set the food out carefully, making sure there was no slight of hand and all their meals were coming from the same place, and still waited to sit down until the Senju had and waited to take their first bites until the Senju had theirs.

Madara sat to Hashirama’s left at a short table near the front, unable to focus on much other than Hashirama’s hand in his. He’d reached over to link them under the table and rested his on Madara’s knee, and the placement allowed him to eat with his dominant hand and make sure everything appeared normal.

Fortunately, Naori was the only one on his left as she stood there in a guarding position, and she said nothing about their hands. The food tasted like nothing even though he knew it had flavor and Madara could stomach only a few bites before he set to fiddling with his chopsticks. He was so used to having nothing, and later small, small portions that Naori retrieved for him as clan head, that the full wooden bowl of food before him felt intimidating.

“Ah, here, Naori-san,” a voice interrupted his jumbled trains of thoughts, making him tense and go to pull his hand away. Hashirama’s tightened around his, thumb brushing over his knuckles, as if to tell him it was all right. It was his brother- it had to be Kawarama, Madara was sure Itama was the one with multi-colored hair- coming up on Naori’s left and holding a bowl out of her. “You shouldn’t miss out!”

Naori looked at him for a long moment through her eyelashes, eyes half-lidded, and he gulped as he held the bowl out. “Thank you, Kawarama-san,” she said after letting him sweat for a minute, smiling with neither cold nor warmth as she took the bowl. He smiled twitchily and retreated back towards the Senju table, throwing Madara a curious glance as he did.

He looked…like Hashirama. Maybe his facial structure was a bit more like Tobirama, but he resembled his eldest brother when he smiled. The friendliness in his eyes was Hashirama’s too.

Madara hoped that Hashirama was happy.

He was starting to feel tired again, in the deep-seated way he could feel in his bones when he felt the feeling of being watched recede and give him a chance to breathe.

Hashirama’s thumb brushed over his knuckles again. It was a soothing gesture, and the way his fingertip danced across the back of Madara’s hand distracted him from everything until the meal was done and he could retreat to the tent with Hashirama’s hand on his back.

* * *

 

There were glowing red eyes staring at the Senju side of the encampment all through the night as Uchiha stood guard, Ryota being one of them. Madara let them all fade from his mind as he stepped into the tent- which had, somehow, produced a bed since he’d last been in it, or maybe he just hadn’t noticed. It looked more like a bedroom than a tent for deliberating, though there was a large table with scrolls strewn over it.

As soon as the flap was closed and they were given privacy and he no longer had to maintain normalcy for the clan, it was as if all the scrapes of energy he’d been using in his body leaked out of him. He let out a shuddering breath and tried to keep his balance, but Hashirama still had to catch him before he hit the floor.

“Shhh,” Hashirama murmured in his ear, drawing him close and tilting him back so he could get an arm under his legs. “It’s all right.”

There was moisture gathering in his eyes that he barely noticed. He clung to the Senju’s neck with trembling hands, taking a deep breath of the scent of his clothes as a sob ripped past his throat. “I missed you.”

Hashirama let out a shaky breath, sitting there, for a moment, and doing nothing but holding him. “Hush, hush,” he whispered, raking a hand through his hair. “Shh. It’s all right. I’m right here.”

He sat down- Madara had barely registered the fact that he’d stood- pulling Madara into his lap as he sat back against the headboard on the mattress. His chakra was spreading over his body again, radiating from Hashirama’s like comforting heat.

He shuddered as he sank into Hashirama’s collarbone. He hadn’t felt this safe- he hadn’t felt safe at all- in what felt like years. Nothing else- not his clan, not their irritation, not his brothers’ wariness- none of it mattered; all that mattered was that he had Hashirama back, that he was with him again, and he didn’t think he could stand to leave that tent for even a minute.

Hashirama stroked his back, working his fingers through his hair and gently pulling out all the tangles, and Madara blearily opened his eyes when he felt a noise rumble in the other man’s chest. It was quiet, not quite a hum, and sounded unsatisfied, as if he’d found a browned apple in the bunch. “What is it,” he mumbled, though he could hardly see clearly at the moment.

“The state of you,” Hashirama murmured in reply, hand brushing down his side where he could feel his ribs beneath his mantle.

Madara, as tired as he was, didn’t understand. Hashirama sighed and brushed his bangs behind his ear. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

And for once, sleep came easy.

* * *

 

“Done watching the Senju like you want to eat them?”

Ryota let out a noise of irritation as he stepped through the tent flap. Izuna gazed up at him from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, a handmade bunch of cards in his grasp, across from Tatsuya and Akira.

“I don’t trust them.”

“Do any of us?” Grimacing, Izuna drew another card from the messy stack in the middle of the floor as Ryota sat down. “The only reason I’m in here is too many sentries will look suspicious.”

“Kotori sent me back in for the night. She thinks we don’t need as many.”

“Well, Kotori-nee is wise. If she thinks so,” Tatsuya mumbled, keeping his eyes glued to his own cards. The deck was old, older than Akira, and Madara’s messy scrawl lined the ones in his hand. Ryota let out a frustrated sigh.

“As much as I hate to say it,” Izuna said as he drew a hand, placing them facedown in front of Ryota’s ankles, “my intuition and all logic I can see here is telling me they won’t lure us in here knowing we’ll be more on guard than ever just to attack us now. Even if it’s just for tonight, I think we’re fine.”

Akira glanced at Ryota’s unsatisfied expression, to Tatsuya’s tentative quietness, to Izuna’s vaguely sour acceptance. He thought of his eldest brother, probably talking to the Senju clan head in that secluded tent at that very moment, and repressed a shiver. He’d only ever heard things about Senju Hashirama, and most of them had been frightening. “How do you think aniki is doing?” he asked, quietly, not wanting to lead into an argument but needing to talk about it.

The rest of his brothers grew tense. Izuna glanced up, at the wall of the tent, in the direction the clan heads’ would lay, expression concentrated but not overtly suspicious. “Hopefully not compromising too much.”

They fell into an awkward silence. None of them knew what to say; Tatsuya would be ready to dissolve from restlessness had he not spent most of the evening running around carrying out Kotori’s orders. Most of the Uchiha had been too preoccupied to be too unruly; Akira and Izuna were under Setsuna, but he knew they’d been just as busy.

“I can’t believe they’re going forward as soon as tomorrow,” he muttered, in a bit of disbelief. He’d figured there would be…well, he didn’t know what he’d thought. That they’d sign the treaty and leave, perhaps, though he hadn’t really expected that. That there would be a week or two of a stalemate in negotiations. Something.

“Yeah,” Ryota muttered, flicking some of his cards aside and drawing a few more. It was a familiar game, one they’d played a thousand times, even if with only two of them. Tatsuya tried to remember the last time they’d played with Madara and found he couldn’t. “This great village we’re all going to play house in. I’m sure it’ll go splendidly.”

“I heard Hikaku say we’ll still build a compound for ourselves. At least I won’t have to see a Senju every day,” Izuna joked, trying to lighten the mood even if just by a little.

Ryota snorted. “Every week is still too much,” he mocked, though his tone was less stressed than before. His expression relaxed the smallest fraction as he drew more cards. “Do you think if we practice we’ll get skilled at avoiding them for months at a time?”

Izuna let out a giggle and slumped over, nearly showing his cards to the rest of them. “That might be a bit obvious.”

“Weeks, then. We’ll call it Senju keep-away.”

Tatsuya bit his lip to contain a smile. He felt a bit bad for laughing, as he knew how hard the Uchiha were trying to make the treaty work, but he couldn’t help it. The forest was dark outside, leaving crickets as their only company, and making a bit of fun was easier than thinking of the Senju encampment just yards across the road. “No, we should call it Senju hide and seek.”

“None of us will be seeking them, though. Senju anxiety.”

“Bye-bye Senju.”

Akira and Izuna giggled quietly, trying to keep the noise leaving their tent to a minimum, as Ryota sat there smirking and Tatsuya covered his mouth with his sleeve. “Trap,” he said, hiccupping around a laugh, as he laid his cards out. The three of them did the same.

“Hah! I won!” Akira exclaimed, grinning as he dragged the betting pool- which was only symbolic and meant for bragging rights, as it was composed of pebbles- towards himself.

Ryota narrowed his eyes at him in a mock-glare. “This round. You won’t be so lucky next time, hippo.”

“Shut up! I keep telling you Piiko isn’t fat!”

“Looks fat to me.”

“Fat pigeons are cuter,” Izuna commented as he shuffled the deck, just to see Akira let out a huff and begin to pout.

“He’s not fat,” he mumbled in sour defeat, taking the cards Izuna offered to him.

He flared his own so he could see the numbers in the corners, sending them all a plotting smile. “You all better watch out. I’m going to be winning this round. And I’m going to be beating you, specifically, Ryota.”

“Oh, you think you can beat me?”

“I _do_ have a higher record score than you. And when I win, I want that green sash you have, it _will_ so fantastically compliment my eyes.”

“I’ve never seen you wear green,” Tatsuya interrupted, frowning in confusion.

Izuna cast them all a smug look. He pulled down the collar of his mantle to show off the green undershirt he had on, which did, indeed, compliment his eyes.

“Where’d you get that?” Ryota asked, raising an eyebrow.

Izuna shrugged. “That young man I beat at cards last month.”

Ryota’s smirk returned, tinged with suggestiveness. “I bet that’s not all you took from him.”

Tatsuya and Akira let out simultaneous groans. “Ew!”

Izuna laughed, releasing his collar, and ignored Akira sticking his tongue out at him as he settled in for the game. “You’ll see the wonders of snogging someone in the bushes when you’re older.”

“Izu-nii, please stop talking.”

* * *

 

Madara didn’t sleep the entire night. He was used to waking up around one in the morning due to his nightmares, and again around three, and when Tajima had been alive he’d learned to train his body to try and wake up after the older Uchiha had left, even if it wasn’t always successful. Thus, his sleep was peaceful and more restful than he’d ever experienced, but he still found his eyes opening several times.

The light from a lantern on the table illuminated Hashirama’s face the first time he awoke. “Night terror?” he asked, softly, inexplicably awake. Madara blinked and shook his head.

“No,” he muttered, “I’ve never slept this well.”

Hashirama reached to the side and pulled something off the small table by the bed. He shifted Madara’s body, practically dead weight, to the side, and set a small bowl full of wineberries on his thigh. “You need to eat. You’re malnourished.”

Food was typically quite unappetizing, but he associated berries so strongly with Hashirama he perked up when he saw them and reached for the bowl on instinct.

“I know the Uchiha fell on hard times more often than not,” Hashirama murmured into his ear while he ate, somehow still radiating chakra that felt like a comforting blanket. “You made sure your brothers ate first, didn’t you?”

“Obviously,” Madara muttered, and realized, when his fingers hit the bottom of the bowl, that he was _hungry_. On cue, more berries sprung from the branch curled in the bottom and swelled into his outstretched hand.

“Naori must have made sure you had enough as clan head.”

Madara grimaced. “I just got used to it,” he said, still muttering, and Hashirama didn’t need to prod further. He let out a light sigh.

“Promise me you’ll try and eat more. I know it can’t be overnight, but you need to take care of yourself. I can always grow you something if you want.”

“All right,” Madara agreed, though he was only paying mostly attention as he emptied the bowl. He would do anything for Hashirama if only he asked.

The bowl was larger the next time he woke up.

* * *

 

When morning came he felt like he had new skin. He was still tired, but it was as if something had instilled a new, long-forgotten energy in his veins. Maybe it had more to do with the fact that the ever-present sense of dread was no longer hounding his mind, the feeling of being watched was entirely gone, the constant sense of unsureness of the future was starting to fade; maybe it had more to do with Hashirama.

The light of day chased away most of the utter exhaustion of the night. He could not remember sleeping so soundly, with only pleasant dreams, for- for his entire _life_. The best he’d gotten was dreamless sleep that didn’t do much other than not torment him and not really add or take away from his tiredness.

But, even more, it was as if- for the first time in a long time, since he could remember- he didn’t _ache_. The aches and pains he usually dealt with or ignored were gone. He wasn’t hungry, partially due to the bowl full of wineberries he’d downed upon waking. The pain he’d had in his thigh for a few months since a nasty stab wound had disappeared; so had a sore joint from a landing that he’d taken too hard weeks before. He felt like a new man.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmured to Hashirama, a small smile on his lips, as the man looked him over. “I can walk around fine.”

“If you’re sure,” Hashirama replied, withdrawing his hands and then thinking better of it and darting forward to press a glowing hand against his forehead one last time. “I’m just making sure,” he squawked when Madara gave him a dry look. He retreated with a pout and folded his arms.

“Come on, Hashirama,” Madara said, withholding a snort, moving half a step closer in a way he hoped was subtle. “Let’s go build the village.”

Hashirama paused, sucked in a breath, straightened as his eyes lit up; he looked up with an intensity shining in his eyes that spoke of excitement, a grin curling across his lips as he unfolded his arms. “Yes,” he agreed, positively radiating something beautiful and warm and inexplicably good. “Our village.”

* * *

 

Hashirama was like an overexcited puppy as he walked through the forest, one arm around Madara with his hand resting on his waist, mouth moving a mile a minute as he talked about initial building zones. He’d given Madara a clipboard and a pen made out of the Mokuton and it made him wonder if the man ever bought anything wooden or if he just made everything he ever needed himself. He wondered if the paper he was marking a map onto was made of Mokuton trees.

“This area should be left to raise crops in,” he suggested, quietly, as he had been for the last twenty minutes, because he already knew what to say. “There’s better irrigation.”

“Wonderful!” Hashirama looked down at him with a grin shining in his eyes, always seeming to gain even more bounce in his step when Madara made suggestions.

There was a log in the path. Hashirama stepped over it in one swoop and reached back to take his hand, ensuring he didn’t so much as trip, and it was such a small gesture yet it made something that felt warm and secure blossom in his chest.

A small attachment of Senju and Uchiha had been following them, keeping a polite distance from each other on the path, but he hardly noticed them. Naori was walking behind them with Tobirama, and he’d gotten used to her being the middleman between him and the clan. A very polite…barrier.

It didn’t occur to him how it looked; the fact that Hashirama hadn’t gone for than a split second here and there without being in contact with him in some way, that he’d stayed so close, keeping mere inches from Madara’s side, that he was watching him across obstacles. All he wanted to focus on was the sound of Hashirama’s voice after months of being bereft of it.

“-that way there will be plenty of room for civilians and marketplaces,” Hashirama was saying, one hand on his back, the other gesturing as he spoke.

“Something else to consider…” Madara began, vaguely tentative, part of him feeling as though it wasn’t quite his place, “…if we can convince other clans to join, they’ll need their own space. I was considering…”

Hashirama glanced at him, encouraging, and he cleared his throat. “Of- asking the Nara,” he said, aware of the way Naori paused, for a split second, before continuing on walking. Hashirama’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. “The forests on the south side would host their deer well. Their medicine would benefit the village as a whole.” A small grimace overcame his expression as he remembered the one time his clan had a run-in with the Nara; there hadn’t been many casualties, but the whole experiencing had been an extremely frustrated one that left him second-guessing his own shadow. “They’re also no pushover.”

Hashirama smiled at him. “That’s a smart idea,” he said, moving his hand lower as the path became bumpier with branches and rocks. “Watch your step. I was thinking of bringing up the Akimichi. If we could convince the two of them, the Yamanaka might be more inclined to accept an invitation; we both know how…volatile they can be.” They traded a wince.

Hashirama’s hand drifted to his elbow as they approached a riverlet to step over. He kept rambling on about plans and his thoughts, how much room they would need, people from tiny, miniscule settlements he’d contacted that were very interested in having the protection of the Land of Fire’s two strongest clans, and Madara let himself bask in it.

He didn’t know if it was going to turn out perfect, but for the moment, everything was all right and at ease. Walking through the forest with Hashirama, in that moment, he had his best friend back and he didn’t have to deal with everything on his own.

He let Hashirama set their path through the woods, adding his own quiet suggestions, and let himself enjoy the momentary peace and quiet.


	7. I howl when

On the second day, he felt more…stable. He was able to stand a couple yards away watching Hashirama speaking animatedly to Naori, Hikaku, and a few Senju, telling them of which sections of land they needed staked off so they would know where to build, though he loathed for Hashirama to leave his sight.

He curled his fingers around the board in his hands, much larger than the clipboard, that had a map of the forest fastened to it. He watched the subtle way the corners of Hashirama’s mouth curled upwards as he spoke, as if at any given moment he wanted to break into a smile, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly when he did. Madara very much loathed to leave his sight.

“You’ve surprised me with how much thought you’ve given to the village structure.”

If he’d been eating one of the fruits Hashirama had been producing from thin air for him all day, he would have inhaled his mouthful as he turned around. “What?” he asked, almost a bit robotically, as a small bead of anxiety centered itself in his mind at the question.

But no- there hadn’t been a question, though it felt like there had been, but Madara was too used to feeling questioned even when others said nothing at all.

Tobirama stood a polite distance away beside him, arms folded, his expression not warm but not unfriendly either. Madara stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say to him, feeling for some reason as though he should feel more awkward around Tobirama, more so than his brothers. He glanced again at Hashirama to make sure he hadn’t veered away.

“I didn’t realize how intent you were on the village’s creation, on your end,” Tobirama continued, eyeing him with something that wasn’t suspicion but still concentrated on him in an odd way. Madara could guess that the Senju had seen Hashirama’s excitement and anticipation but hadn’t known Madara’s feelings on “their dream” that Hashirama must have spoken of at one point or another. “But you’ve obviously deliberated on it quite a bit.”

“Oh.” Madara stared at him for a moment more before turning away, not knowing how to respond. He could still feel Tobirama eyeing him, and he didn’t know why he was so curious all of a sudden. “Well. As long as Hashirama is…” His eyes alighted on Hashirama’s smile as the man turned, in the middle of saying something to his brother- the one called Itama, with multi-colored hair.

He became distracted in between trailing off and hearing Tobirama speak again. “You care greatly for him.”

“What?” He turned to look at him again, confused, squinting a bit to bring the man into focus and blinking to dispel the blurriness. “Who?”

Tobirama raised an eyebrow at him. He decided to let the subject drop, apparently, and moved on to something else. “I wanted to make an inquiry of you.”

Hashirama was gesturing at something on a piece of paper Itama held. Madara watched his eyes move back and forth. “What is it?”

A moment of silence passed. “You spared my brother and I.”

Madara stood there for a minute waiting for the question. Confused, he looked back to Tobirama, feeling, for some reason, almost a little bit intimidated at the idea of trying to have an actual conversation with him- not because he was scared of the Senju, but of the multitude of ways he knew he would most likely make the conversation turn sour. “I spared you and Hashirama?”

Tobirama squinted at him, in a sort of examining way, like Madara was under his microscope, and Madara wondered how he was so different from all of his brothers- the other three seemed to wear everything on their sleeve; Tobirama was the quiet one.

“Itama and I,” he corrected.

A crease formed in his brow. “When did I ever attack you?” he asked, honestly befuddled. Was there some battle he’d forgotten?

“You didn’t. You spared us from your father.”

Madara didn’t comprehend for almost another minute of silence. The mention of his father made something sour burden him. He’d tried his hardest not to think of that man for as long as he could manage.

It was hard to remember that one, single particular incident among the haze of many, but he did remember- seeing them once, thinking of how heartbroken Hashirama would be if they didn’t come back.

“Oh,” he finally said, mouth feeling dry. He supposed that incident must have been…a sore spot. But Tobirama was still one of Hashirama’s brothers, and he supposed he needed to try to at least get along with them all. “I…apologize.”

Saying he was sorry was easier than it had been before. He couldn’t fathom why.

Tobirama frowned at him. He seemed to be confused by Madara’s apology, and the tiniest tilt of his head did remind Madara of Hashirama. Maybe their similarities were just harder to spot. “What?”

Madara grimaced. It may have been easier, but he still didn’t like doing it. “I apologize for the incident,” he muttered, staring at a tree instead of the pair of puzzled red eyes staring at him. It had been his fault, he supposed, since he’d stood there and drawn Tajima over, since he was part of the force putting the brothers in danger in the first place, since he had never managed to stop anything. “It is understandable if you dislike me.”

“I don’t- you-” A deep furrow formed in Tobirama’s brow. Maybe it would have been funny in a different situation. “You just-”

He fell silent, not saying anything, and they stood there in mutual discomfort. Madara wondered if the other brothers were as good at awkwardness.

Tobirama closed his mouth and continued to stand there with narrow eyes, looking like he was expending too much brain effort trying to figure out the exact specifics of what to say; if that was the case, Madara considered them even, because he felt as if he was getting a headache just from trying to decipher Tobirama’s oddness.

“Making conversation?” Hashirama asked, in a more hopeful than light tone, as he came up behind him. Madara relaxed as soon as he was there, focusing on the way their sleeves were brushing together.

He and Tobirama eyed each other again. The dissatisfied frown was still there. “Yeah,” he muttered, at the same time Tobirama mumbled out a yes.

Hashirama’s smile twitched. “Well, ah…good,” he enthused, setting a hand on Madara’s shoulder. It chased away from of his tiredness.

Madara stared at the patch of wilting grass just beyond the blue sash on Tobirama’s waist. Tobirama stared at some far-off point beyond his shoulder, saying nothing.

“Well, Tobirama, why don’t you go help Itama and Toka?” Hashirama said after another tense moment of silence, smiling brighter.

The younger Senju gave them a short nod. “Good day,” he muttered, heading across the clearing towards the other Senju.

Hashirama gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Are you all right?” he asked, in a quieter tone.

Though the exchange had been supremely uncomfortable, Madara could see nothing particularly wrong with it. “I’m fine,” he replied with a shrug. He let a moment pass before speaking again, tone low. “Your brother’s odd.”

A soft laugh escaped Hashirama’s throat. “He and Toka aren’t very good at small talk. We’re ready to start building houses now.” Madara knew that the majority of their infrastructure would be built by Hashirama himself; he only said ‘we’ to make it sound like a community effort, as if most of the credit didn’t belong to him. “Are you all right to head out?”

“I’m fine.” Madara didn’t quite know if he was completely fine, but he would undoubtedly be better in Hashirama’s presence than anywhere else. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

For some reason he didn’t feel as though he’d been this involved the…last time? He wasn’t sure what last time he was thinking of- it wasn’t as if he’d followed Hashirama around while he erected an endless slew of buildings before.

It was a bit fascinating. One might predict all the houses and shops would be uniform, exactly the same, cookie-cutter imprints as Hashirama made as many as possible, but it was as if they took on a bit of uniqueness even without his direction; every one was shaped a little differently, a bit different format, somehow, even, with different types of wood, sometimes.

He did not destroy the forest around them, but only reshaped it and moved trees to the outskirts to make room for the bulk of the village. Flowers and bushes sprung up in beds along the streets and in boxes he created; he breathed a bit of life into the area, even though it had no residents yet.

Madara knew he should be with his clan, helping them as they began to build their own compound in the area staked off for the Uchiha, but he didn’t want to leave his friend’s side, especially when being there allowed him to feel as though they were making actual progress.

The sun was starting to fall. It bathed the countryside in warm, soft light as it stretched forward towards night, a reminder that he would have to sleep again. Hopefully the night would be peaceful again, as long as Hashirama stayed close- Madara didn’t want to dwell on how they would have to part ways, even just a small distance, when they each had a home.

“Aren’t you tired yet?” he asked, managing to keep it above a mumble, smiling a bit when Hashirama turned to grin at him.

“I’m hardly tired at all,” he said, cheerfully, as he stretched his arms above his head. He’d just finished making a building fit to be a bathhouse on the end of the street pop up, and came wandering over to the boulder Madara had sat down on to reach for the canteen tied to his belt. He unscrewed the cap and took a few gulps without bothering to untie it first, setting it down to rest against Madara’s thigh and smiling again. “We only have one section left before we can retire for the night. Come on.”

Madara, in contrast, was starting to feel the tiredness aching in his bones. It had hit him when he was trailing along at Hashirama’s side, absentmindedly marking areas off on his map, that he had managed to make it through his hell. He wasn’t naïve enough to think anything would be easy now, but it was finally started, finally in the present, and he didn’t have to think about where they would migrate next or if Hashirama was all right.

Everything would be fine. He had to tell himself it until he started believing it.

He dragged himself off the boulder, taking a steadying breath when he felt himself wobble on his feet. It felt as if now that years of worrying and hurting were gone he didn’t know how to handle not carrying the weight. Now that it was over he was so… _tired_.

Hashirama stayed half a step away as they walked beneath the canopy of the trees overhead; there was more where the buildings weren’t so concentrated, and Madara remembered- no, he predicted, he didn’t know why it felt familiar- that he enjoyed walking along some of the quieter paths. There were benches at various points- well, there weren’t any yet- that he liked- that he would probably like- to sit on and scatter seed for the birds.

Many of the Senju had begun to work on the homes, scattered through the bulk of the village, working to make them look even more hospitable to any incoming citizens, and the rest had gathered in the neighborhood they’d marked for themselves. It was not closed off like the Uchiha’s compound, but rather open, like any other section of the village.

Madara almost wished the Uchiha’s section looked more like the Senju’s. The sensation felt like some sort of betrayal, but the fence and the gates and the closedness of it felt more like a jail to him.

A tug on his hand caught his attention. He’d gotten lost in his thoughts again, not paying attention to where he was going; he realized Hashirama had taken his hand, half in the process of stepping onto a large log in the path to get over it, and followed suit.

He wondered if Hashirama would build him an aviary if he asked. Well- of course he would, but it was the asking- for something frivolous to the village’s creation, something only he needed.

He realized he’d zoned out again when he almost stumbled on part of the bark under his sandals. Hands settled on his waist and lifted, momentarily making his stomach flip, and he seized Hashirama’s sleeves as he set him down, ending the sensation of having nothing under his feet.

“Just a few more,” Hashirama told him, with a bright smile that sent the startled feeling scattering from his mind. It made him relax his hold on the man’s sleeves, though he didn’t let go.

Madara did his best to smile back. He had ground to stand on again, after so many years, and everything was going to work out fine.

He had to believe it.

* * *

 

As someone had once said- Madara couldn’t remember if it was an author or a philosopher or something else- all good things came to an end. They spent a few more nights in the tent, and then in a small building near the center of the village where the largest building had been created, one he knew would transform into the Hokage Tower eventually.

It was for administration, and as the leader of half the population, he’d been invited the next morning, at ten sharp. It was both an obligation and a courtesy and he knew Hashirama wanted him there, even though it felt as if he didn’t belong.

But he had his own…home to return to now, because the Uchiha compound was finished due to Hikaku and Naori walking through with Hashirama while a few Uchiha gave them sour glances; Hashirama had built a house for himself and his brothers.

“You can stay with me, if you want,” Hashirama told him, with furrowed brow, stroking his knuckles as they stood at the intersection of a path that led towards the compound in one direction and the Senju district in the other.

Madara wanted to- god, did he want to- but he wasn’t stupid. Prolonging the inevitable wouldn’t make it easier. “It’s fine,” he said, glancing down at both of Hashirama’s hands holding his and letting a small smile onto his face. “Don’t concern yourself over it.”

“Well, all right,” Hashirama replied, but he grumbled as he did. It made Madara’s smile widen. “Make sure you eat. I left plenty of vegetation in the gardens.”

Madara, reluctantly, pulled his hand away. Hashirama stared at it for a moment. “It’ll be fine,” he said, just as much to himself as to Hashirama, and he finally turned away. He didn’t want to leave, but he made himself take a few strides down the path, grimacing.

“Madara!” He jerked to a startled stop when Hashirama called out, whirling around and finding the Senju standing there looking sheepish. He rubbed the back of his neck, lowering his eyes to the impression in Madara’s mantle where his necklace lay. “Good night.”

Madara licked his lips and swallowed. “Good night,” he called back, quiet, and turned to go again.

The clan had erected a large house for the leader and any heirs. His brothers were already there, sitting or working in various states of awkward silence, and Madara stood in the entryway for what felt like forever wondering what to say. Ryota glanced at him a few times, looking grumpy, and Izuna avoided his gaze, looking too focused on whatever it was he was doing to give him any time. He supposed Tatsuya and Akira must have been closed up in their own rooms already.

“Good night,” he finally managed to get out, bringing an audible pause to the room, an awkward one, as Ryota glanced at him yet again and Izuna gave him a jerky nod. He decided to retreat to his own room, set at the end of a hall with a set of garden doors directly across from it, secluded from the rest.

The night was empty. He laid in bed alone, wishing he had Hashirama’s warmth beneath his ear, as the hand of anxiety worked its way up his spine. He wished they’d at least placed him with Naori.

That night he dreamt of battlefields, scattered with dead bodies, all of them bearing his own face.


	8. water off my wings

“Tobirama?”

Tobirama let out a hum of affirmation, setting down the kunai he’d been sharpening and reaching for another, sat in front of a neat stack on the table. The light from the torches worked well enough, but he was interested in seeing how well the form of lighting that had begun to pop up in small towns would work. It would certainly make working in the dark easier.

“Do you think that…” Itama trailed off, sounding unsure. “Hashirama is trying to…uh…”

His second pause was fuller than the first; Tobirama glanced up, squinting at him across the table. “Trying to what?”

Itama bit his lip. He always did so when trying to figure out how to politely word something. “Trying to…well…uh… I’m not sure what other word to use but… seduce…the Uchiha leader?”

Tobirama’s hands froze. His squint narrowed. “Trying to what?” he asked again, a little more incredulously.

Itama flushed in embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck in the same way Hashirama did. He glanced over at where Kawarama stood leaning against the counter for help. “You know,” the other brother continued for him, eyes shining with something curious and marginally innocent. “He’s just so…like _that_ …towards him. Not seduce like- like in the plotting way, just…”

“He _really_ likes the Uchiha leader,” Itama went on, eyes flicking towards the doorway to the living room. “Like… _really_ likes him.”

Tobirama stared at them. He slowly set his kunai down, trying to work out how to respond, but he wasn’t sure- he wasn’t even entirely sure that Hashirama _wasn’t_ trying to win Madara’s good graces. He was…very openly affectionate with the man. Some would call him brazen.

He knew Hashirama wasn’t going to actually try anything _now_ , when Madara was…recovering. But there had been so many times he’d seen Hashirama anxiously waiting to go out for his meetings, hoping for a letter, how bright he’d looked when he finally saw Madara again after so many months- how close he made sure to stay.

They’d even slept curled up together on the same bed- Tobirama had seen, after peering in for just a second to place a few new maps on the desk. Madara had slept soundly with his ear resting over Hashirama’s heart and both hands twisted in the fabric of his haori, hardly leaving the Senju’s side for days.

He was clearly tired. More tired than anyone Tobirama had ever seen. More often than not, when Hashirama was speaking or busy or walking along creating the buildings, Madara would just stare at him, with some kind of exhausted warmth- almost like longing.

Tobirama wouldn’t have been surprised if Hashirama had it in his head to bind Madara’s hand as soon as he was in a place he could reciprocate. They had begun what was possibly the biggest undertaking of their lives- creating the settlement Hashirama had dreamed of- what else was there, other than drawing close the friend he’d been a bit obsessed with- in Tobirama’s opinion, anyway- for years, and what better way than with eternal matrimony?

“I don’t know,” he said, after a moment of thought, and gave them another narrow-eyed look. “But whatever his intent is, don’t meddle.”

Kawarama blinked at him. “Brother, we would never,” he said, innocently, just to piss him off. Tobirama cast him a glare and went back to his kunai-sharpening, doing his best to ignore them as they shared a vaguely mischievous look.

* * *

 

The first two nights were the worst. Madara returned each day after dark had fallen, after having stayed for long hours with Hashirama that were refreshing despite how tired they left him, and treaded through a tense atmosphere in the house to reach his room. Occasionally, Ryota or Izuna would be up in the living area, seated on a chair, doing something of their own, and they generally stayed quiet, though Izuna nodded at him once.

The third night was marginally better. It was still…awkward, but Izuna smiled at him as he passed him in the hall. Akira caught him before he entered his room, popping in from the garden, holding Piiko in his hands as he smiled and told him he’d learned to play fetch.

Madara had smiled as widely as he could- he’d been so exhausted- and said it was good progress before Akira was off, eyes trailing on the ground, towards the hall that led to his own room.

Hashirama told him he had nothing to do that morning- there was little else they could do now, other than answer what missives had arrived from prospective citizens- and Madara was left with no objective. He wandered down one of the roads leading to the office building Hashirama had erected, feeling aimless, knowing he could never contribute as much as Hashirama himself.

It was almost startling, in a way, how far along Hashirama had brought them in only a few short days. The village wasn’t anything like what it would be someday- it was still a settlement- but there were enough buildings to already look like a city. Madara could see people bustling about, unloading carts, civilians and wandering clanless shinobi who’d already arrived.

It wasn’t all that dissimilar to the haunting of a memory that sometimes dogged his steps. The way people glanced in his direction, with furtive glances and hushed voices, was familiar.

It was different even now, though. He was Uchiha Madara, the brother his father had said was the most useless, who hadn’t overtly stood out when he fought with them yet always carried something with him that made people take a second look. He had hardly used his Mangekyo on the battlefield at all. There were no days wandering alone taking on entire battalions by himself. Some might have said he was clearly strong, but not special, just very, very odd.

He tossed another handful of seed onto the ground. A group of birds from the forest scattered after it, having been hanging around the bench he sat on for over twenty minutes. He hated how his home in the compound was so isolated- right in the center of it- not near the woods like he would have preferred.

A little mourning dove wobbled up to his ankle, letting out a coo that made him smile. Madara had frightened many people in his life, had enjoyed frightening many of them, but at least the birds were never scared of him- he didn’t think he could stand it if they were.

He leaned down and carefully lifted the bird onto the bench, taking a handful of seed and setting it down beside her. She cooed at him again, shuffling about and rearranging herself and reaching down to nibble at it.

“She’s very pretty,” a voice said from his right, light and smooth and reminding him of some kind of voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. “Is that a dove?”

Madara’s head jerked up. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, but he supposed he’d gotten distracted. He hadn’t been able to sleep much for his nightmares and wondering how his brothers were adjusting, as busy as they were running back and forth for Hikaku and Naori.

“She’s a mourning dove,” he explained, blinking, and closed his mouth despite thinking he should say something else. The woman who’d asked was pretty, startingly so, and he wondered why she’d come up to him. Perhaps this was a spot she frequented more than him.

The woman smiled at him. There was a purple diamond on her forehead that struck him as familiar, for some reason, and deep swirls painted onto her cheekbones that matched the intense red of her hair.

“Have- you never seen one before?” he managed to get out, feeling a bit robotic, but at least she didn’t seem fazed by his lack of socialization skill.

Smile widening, she finished stepping over to the bench and sat down beside him. He tensed, getting ready to get up if she asked, but she only continued the conversation. “The ones where I’m from are all very colorful, but their bodies are similar. I was told the ones here would be dull by comparison, but I don’t see how she’s boring. She’s very pretty, if you ask me.”

Madara glanced down at the dove. She paused and blinked up at him, tilting her head in a familiar way. “People don’t like brown, I suppose,” he mumbled.

The woman let out a disapproving tut. “Silly. Brown’s a very pretty color.”

Images of long brown hair and dark skin and warm eyes the color of Watatsumi’s coverts trickled through his head. His mouth moved without his direction. “I love brown.”

She let out a titter, though it didn’t sound judgmental. “I just saw a woman today with the prettiest brown hair and eyes. I was going to ask if she’d let me buy her a drink at whatever bar is set up here- I’m sure at _least_ one is established already- but I lost her in a crowd,” she said with a disappointed sigh. She turned and gave him a piercing look, wielding eyes the color of algae hanging on the sea. “Always off-putting when that happens, isn’t it?”

Madara startled. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt a weird sort of comfortableness, as if he’d just had a question answered even though he was sure he hadn’t asked one. Then again- it felt more like she was asking him a question, not the other way around. “I suppose,” he muttered again, averting his eyes. “I’m…Uchiha Madara.”

He extended his hand, hoping she wouldn’t expect him to kiss hers, and- thankfully- she only shook it, with a smile that felt a bit teasing. “Uzumaki Mito. I apologize if I interrupted your bird-feeding- I heard one of those shinobi over there muttering something about how you must be difficult to get along with, and I thought that had to be the most ridiculous thing; you look like a nice person. I had to come see for myself!” she said, still in that teasing tone that didn’t feel quite like someone making fun of him.

Madara’s ears burned. _You look like a nice person._ No one had ever told him anything of the sort- he couldn’t imagine that he looked nice.

“Although,” she continued, eyeing his mantle, “your fashion sense could use tweaking.”

“My- my what?” Madara sputtered.

She chuckled and reached over to pinch his sleeve, waving it about while his hand remained immobile. “The concept is nice, dear, but it’s so drab. Wouldn’t you like something with cranes, for example?”

Madara didn’t answer. The idea was nice, of course, but shinobi rarely cared about clothing- at least the ones who couldn’t afford leisure clothing.

“I assume you know a lot about birds, then?” she continued, letting go of his sleeve and reaching over his lap to give the dove a pat. It let out a coo and leaned into her hand.

Madara coughed to clear his throat. He ought to do more than just sit there saying nothing, he knew. “I keep many of them. Primarily birds of prey, but I have several pigeons.”

“I’ve wanted one for a while,” she admitted, retreating to her part of the bench and withdrawing a fan from her sleeve. They were wide and draping, like his, but a startling white, contrasting completely with his dark navy attire. “But I’m afraid I only rented one of the apartments here, rather than a house, so I don’t have much room.”

It took Madara a moment to remember. Many buildings had been built that were newer in concept- many smaller living spaces in one building rather than the traditional homes- and as far as he knew, not many people had taken residence in them yet, too unused to living with a bunch of strangers right around them.

“Does it have access to the roof?” he blurted out, purely on impulse, resisting a cringe at how eager he must have looked. “It’s very easy to keep them there, if the building’s owner will let you build a coop.”

“Is it?” she cast an interested glance at the dove now in his lap, settled on his thighs and resting her head against his trousers as she dozed. “I’m sure she won’t mind. Would you happen to have any advice for me?”

Madara spoke on impulse again. He couldn’t help but think- he would be lucky to make more than a few friends. He remembered wishing that people would look at him and see Madara, nothing else. “I can show you, and I have a few you could choose from- if you’d like,” he awkwardly remembered to tack on, not wanting to make it seem like an order.

A smile appeared on her face. “That would be wonderful. In the meantime, I’ll figure out a way to repay you. A favor for a favor, hmm?”

* * *

 

“A few?”

“I may have underestimated how many I have,” Madara mumbled, feeling his ears burning again. They’d returned to the compound- garnering more than their share of suspicious stares at the presence of a complete stranger at his side- and gone to visit the coop Naori had ordered be constructed near his house. He’d only had two pigeons when they’d arrived, but she had predicted the future easily enough.

Mito surveyed the mass of fluttering feathers before them. There had to be at least fifteen. “Do they just…show up in your yard or something of the sort?”

Madara shifted from one foot to the other, averting his eyes and not answering just how true that assumption was.

She let out a sudden gasp, quickening her step over to one of the perches where a mottled brown and white pigeon sat preening. “This one is beautiful. I’ve never seen one with such a large tail.”

“Fantail,” Madara said, preening a bit himself as he followed her, proud. “She was gifted to me by an acquaintance-” The acquaintance being a falcon that dove past his window with a basket. “-But you’re more than free to choose her, as long as you take her partner.”

He glanced at another bird pointedly. A grey pigeon with a dark tail and light shoulders hopped onto the perch, with what could only be described as extremely fluffy legs, sidling up to her partner and rubbing noses with her.

Mito let out a gasp of delight. “Yuina and Yuka,” he said, feeling a smile tug at his lips as she tentatively began to pet one of them.

He had just gotten out a basket- very convenient for carrying his smaller birds, he found- and given it to her when the door to the coop swept open, not too swiftly but abrupt enough to startle a few of the birds near it. He nearly grimaced when Ryota and Izuna stepped through.

“Oh,” Izuna said, stopping short, as if he hadn’t expected him to be there despite looking for him there. His eyes flitted to Mito very briefly. “Madara. We were…wondering what you were doing.”

A dove he was more familiar with leapt onto a perch near his head and cooed. He raised a hand to stroke him absentmindedly.

Ryota glanced at the basket and frowned. “You’re giving away some of your birds?” he asked, sounding vaguely suspicious and oddly defensive at the same time. Madara knew what they were both thinking. He doubted many of the Uchiha were extremely friendly to outsiders after only a few days. They thought he was being too amicable.

“This is Uzumaki Mito,” he began, not sure where else to start, because he knew it wouldn’t appease their worries. “A…”

He trailed off. Was it too bold to call her his friend? Was she an acquaintance? Would she be offended if he did?

“I’m a friend of his,” she said with a smile, something soft yet inexplicably sharp in her gaze. “A pleasure to meet you both. Ryota and Izuna, isn’t that right? I hope you’ll enjoy the village from here on out.”

They both looked a bit uncomfortable at the politeness. Madara bit his lip, restraining the urge to let out a small laugh. They could hardly be rude upfront.

“Same to you,” Ryota finally said with a stiff nod, still looking uncomfortable with them. “We…”

“Should probably leave them alone, brother,” Izuna interrupted him, smiling in a strained sort of way as he backstepped. Ryota said nothing, just standing there squinting at them for a moment, before he nodded and followed his brother.

Mito turned to him with a smile when the door had closed. “They’re a bit green, blustering in without a plan,” she simpered, making him crack and let out a small grin. “But you have plenty to show me still. And in exchange, I’ll find you something better to wear! You wouldn’t want to look too serious, would you?”

“I’m not- that’s not-”

“Good! Let’s go.”

* * *

 

He didn’t know why he’d been so willing to give away two of his _birds_ so easily to a stranger, but he felt, after only a few hours with her, as if he’d known Mito for weeks. She was friendly, non-judgmental, and simply _looked_ at him in a way that made him feel…better.

She was the first friend he’d ever made outside of Hashirama and Naori. Naori would like Mito, he thought-she liked him well enough. If she could like him, she could like anybody.

Hours passed by easily, and he almost stunned himself with how much he enjoyed it. He wasn’t thinking of the village, of his brothers, even of Hashirama.

They spent a long while on her roof, sitting by the coop they’d constructed, simply talking. He was left to go home in the dark, not wanting to take up her offer to sleep in her extra room when they’d only met that day.

As he walked through the trees, following the path by the moonlight shining through the leaves, he felt a creeping sensation creep up his spine. The particular feeling that someone was watching him reared its ugly head, subtle, just in the back of his mind, and he paused, feeling his breath leave him for a moment. A lump formed in his throat as he stood there.

He forced his feet to keep moving. He may not have… _seen_ anything in a while, but the feelings were all in his head. There was no one there, no one he could sense, no danger.

It wasn’t real.

He quickened his pace. There was no reason to stay out needlessly after dark.

It wasn’t real.

He yanked on the door to the hall from the garden and threw himself inside, gasping from how hard he’d run, slamming the door shut and latching it before flying into his room and locking the door. He stood there leaning against it, trying to get his heart rate down, wondering at the ridiculousness of himself that he was sent fleeing just by shadows in the dark.

It wasn’t real.

He had to tell himself that, until he believed it.


	9. social dysfunction

“That was stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stop being sarcastic! That was stupid!”

Ryota turned and gave him a livid stare, waving his hands about as he spoke in a way that resembled when Piiko got particularly upset about something. “We had to make sure he wasn’t getting murdered!”

Izuna groaned and laid a hand over his eyes. All right, he would admit, they had maybe panicked a little- but they still hadn’t had a foreign visitor in the compound yet, and it had set off alarm bells to see a strange woman strolling inside with his brother. She stood out in every way- bright red hair, light-colored clothing, a smile on her face.

He just hadn’t really thought through what their excuse for bursting into the pigeon coop would be.

“Well, she wasn’t murdering him,” he shot back rhetorically, staring at the wall of the building across from them. He’d seated himself on a random storage crate someone had probably forgotten about while Ryota had his miniature hissy fit to let off steam by the outer fence. He most definitely wasn’t having a hissy fit himself to let off steam. “Do you think…”

A vaguely horrifying thought occurred to him. An image flashed through his head- of ornate clothing, even more than what that woman had been wearing, of the music Uchiha played at their weddings, of that woman sauntering through his front door with Madara on her arm flashing the brothers a bright smile as she told them she was their new sister. _Forever_.

“Oh, god,” he exclaimed, starting to chew on his thumb nail. It was a bad habit he’d mostly broken by now. “Do you think she was…you know…”

Ryota turned and squinted at him. “What?”

“C…courting him?”

Ryota froze. He stared at him with wide eyes, mouth turning down in repulsion. “What? No!”

“Think about it,” Izuna rambled, “maybe she’s trying to marry one of the founding clan heads-”

“No! Absolutely not! It doesn’t have to be like that just because she’s a woman! Just- no!”

“But _anyone_ could try and seduce him,” Izuna said, turning to him with round eyes. “Think about it.”

“I don’t _want_ to think about it! Madara- Madara’s- he’s hardly interested in that sort of thing!”

“Maybe so,” Izuna muttered, staring at the wall again, “but he could be.”

They fell into a dismayed silence. Ryota stared at some point on the ground a few yards away, a range of conflicted emotions flickering across his face. It would’ve been funny if Izuna wasn’t so focused on his own.

He thought of Madara standing at an altar reciting wedding rites, placing a ring on that Uzumaki’s finger. He wrinkled his nose. That just felt very _wrong_. It wasn’t as if Madara had ever expressed an interest in anyone, but Izuna had kind of just assumed he was like the rest of them. He liked men, Ryota liked men, and Tatsuya had crushes on other boys in the clan. Akira hadn’t mentioned any crushes yet, but Izuna just had a _feeling_.

It made more sense for Madara to like men. After all-

Izuna froze, pure horror sliding up his veins like water crawling the wrong way against gravity. Ryota must have seen the primal sort of fear in his expression, looking startled as he took a step closer. “What is it?”

“Surely Madara likes men, don’t you think?” he blurted out, making eye contact with his twin and letting him see the twitching of the area under his left eyelid. “Don’t you think?”

“Uh…I mean…I guess.” Ryota frowned and glanced at the ground, looking as if he was considering. He opened his mouth again, probably to say he didn’t care that much, and Izuna blustered on before he could finish.

“That Senju. The Senju. Hashirama. Senju Hashirama.”

Ryota gave him a weary stare, looking, if anything, more confused than before. “What’s your point?”

How could his brother be so stupid? Frustrated, Izuna leaned forward and seized his robe, scowling. “What if the Senju likes men too?” There still wasn’t any comprehension on Ryota’s face. “What if they end up _doing_ something?”

Ryota went still. He finally understood, if the petrified look on his face was worth anything. “No.”

“What if _they_ end up getting engaged?”

“Stop. Stop talking. That’s impossible.”

“But it isn’t. What if-”

“That definitely won’t happen!”

“You saw how they were acting!”

“Shut up!”

“They’re going to sleep together,” Izuna rambled, letting go of his brother and chewing on his nail again. “Then they’re going to say they’re in love, and they’re going to get married, and they’re going to adopt fifteen little Senju children, and we’re going to have to call him older brother, and we’ll have to attend Senju functions-”

“Shut! Up!” Ryota bounded forward and tackled him off the storage box, sending them both flying into the dirt. He used the much too long draping sleeve of his robe to beat him over the head a few times, scowling. “That won’t happen.”

Izuna didn’t even attempt to make him stop, unbothered by his onslaught. “Just you wait,” he whispered. “It’ll happen.”

Ryota stared at him for several seconds before groaning, transitioning from denial and anger into weary acceptance as he covered his face with his sleeves. “I would accept literally anyone else over that Senju.”

Izuna laid in the road for a minute and stared at the sky. It was a clear day, just warm enough to be pleasant, and peaceful-looking clouds were rolling by overhead, unknowing of the tragic topic they were discussing. “Well,” he murmured, closing his eyes, “maybe he does like women.”

Ryota let out a grumpy noise. “Stop. That’s even more bizarre.”

* * *

 

Madara was reminded, for the first time in a long time, that he truly hated social functions.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to welcome the Nara- it was a major accomplishment, getting another clan to settle with them, and he wanted to make it work- more for Naori that he should have probably prioritized.

Most of their clans were outside, in the largest street available, where lanterns had been set up and the Senju had brought a ridiculous amount of food to entertain with. It wasn’t a bad offering, and the Nara were humble enough to appreciate it and not expect a majestic banquet hall that could fit their entire clan.

Instead, their clan head and an attachment of Nara had been invited into the largest building they had, set off the road, in the center of the village- _why did he keep wanting to call it a tower?_ \- the one they used as an office. The first level was broad and open, offering more than enough room for people to mingle.

He wrinkled his nose. Everything was unbearably loud, even though the crowd certainly wasn’t the rowdiest there was, considering the Nara were laid-back. He’d been hoping there would be no incidents. He’d chosen the more agreeable Uchiha to attend- those who’d been the most willing to work with Kotori and Hikaku- but it was still their first real test as…hosts.

Laughter caught his attention. He spotted Kotori leaning against one of the food tables, a small gaggle of Nara women clustered around her, smiling amicably as she told a story that made them smile and laugh. She looked…relaxed, almost, even to be enjoying herself.

He grimaced. At least she and Hikaku seemed to be doing better than he was. He _could_ socialize, he supposed, but it was just so…bothersome.

He picked up a snippet of conversation from somewhere to his left, beyond the table he’d been lurking behind. “Where _is_ the Uchiha leader?” someone asked, in a curious tone that implied someone had mentioned him and thus brought attention to how little he’d been seen.

Madara grimaced. He probably should have done more, he thought, introduced himself, started conversation- Hashirama was doing so, laughing and smiling and shaking hands as he made a rotation around the room- but it was just so much work.

He wandered towards the other end of the room, telling himself he needed some fresh air, and slipped into one of the hallways.

He grabbed a door handle and yanked it open, stepping inside and pulling it shut before he could chastise himself for it. He wasn’t _hiding_ , he was just- just-

Almost immediately, the presence of another body in the closet made him go tense.

“Oh,” another voice said, dull and a bit flushed. “Madara. Good evening.”

He could have sworn he recognized it. Veering back until his back was even with the wall, he cleared his throat and tried not to sound like he’d been caught red-handed. “You’re- Hashirama’s cousin, correct?”

“Toka,” the woman grunted, sounding put-out. “I was just…checking…inventory.”

Madara’s cheek twitched. It was bullshit, but he had no better excuse, and he could hardly call her on it. “I was looking for…somewhere private. To. Compose a message.” _Goddammit_. It sounded stupid even before it left his mouth.

A moment of awkward silence passed. Finally, she let out a ragged breath, tension leaving her body as her tone took on a sour note. “I hate these goddamned things. Everyone out there expecting me to smile and have small talk all fucking night long.”

Something like relief flowed through him. “It’s tiresome,” he muttered, letting himself sound as grumpy as he felt. “I have nothing to talk about with any of them. I see no point in pretending I want to be somewhere if I don’t.”

She let out a noise that sounded vaguely like _ugh_. Another moment of silence passed them by before she spoke again, sounding, again, the smallest bit embarrassed. “We can probably just stand in the hallway.”

Flushing, Madara reached for the door and pulled it open, letting her duck her head and step out before him. The hallway, indeed, was still empty, and the noise from the main room was dimmed.

She brushed herself off, though she’d hardly accrued any dust, and folded her arms as she turned so her back faced the wall. She did look very similar to Hashirama- though her face was harsher, and her hair looked rougher; her expression was still unpleasant, though it didn’t seem to be directed at him.

Even though the expression in them was far different, however, her eyes were such a similar shade to Hashirama’s.

He cleared his throat. “Are you…finding the village comfortable so far?” he asked, trying not to feel so curious. If Hashirama’s cousin- and his brothers- his family- were happy, then he was sure the man himself would be.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to make small talk.”

Madara’s face flushed. He could feel heat rising to his ears as he muttered. “I meant it. I know the Uchiha have been…intricate…to get on with.”

He- they were trying. He didn’t know if he deserved any recognition for that.

She paused, and then softened a bit. “It’s been pleasant so far. The Uchiha aren’t all that bad. I even made friends with one,” she said, in a tone that didn’t quite sound like a joking one but had to have been at least a little lighthearted if the slight smile on her face was any indicator. “Kotori, her name is?”

Madara relaxed. Of course it had been Kotori; if not her, it probably would have been Hikaku or Naori. “She’s one of my lieutenants. She’s very skilled.”

“I suppose that’s the Uchiha way of complimenting someone’s personality, isn’t it?” Toka’s smile grew a bit wider. She shifted on her feet, though it made her grimace slightly as she glanced down at them.

“Something the matter?”

“Just these shoes,” she grumbled, glowering. “Hitomi- she’s another cousin of mine- bought a bunch of them from some merchant and wanted me to try them with her. I guess it’s been a fashion with rich civilians for a while, but I’ve still never seen a pair of these damned things in my life.”

He looked down at her shoes and squinted. They weren’t like most sandals any shinobi wore, but they did resemble the sort of shoes he’d seen some rich women wear, on the few occasions the clan had taken missions for wealthy clients.

He moved his eyes to her foot. They looked the same size as his, give or take a few millimeters.

“You can use mine,” he blurted out, feeling an urge to be polite- to not make more of Hashirama’s siblings dislike him- and she seemed nice enough, almost as if he was with Naori or Mito or Kotori.

She turned a raised eyebrow to him. “You want these hellish things?”

Madara stared for a moment and shrugged. He reached down and began to unstrap his own sandals- flat ones, as he was sure she’d enjoy.

She seemed to take it in stride and began taking hers off, glad to get rid of them. They were a bit odd to step into- holding his foot at a slant, rather than level as even the tallest of his usual sandals had- and they gave him an unexpected boost in height, as when he straightened her eyes were no longer at a higher point than his.

He let out an amused sound. “Well, I’m taller than you,” he prodded, with a bit of amicable mockery.

She raised an eyebrow again and let out a bellowing laugh. It was loud and seemed to fill the hall, just as her cousin’s did. “That’s the first thing you notice? Are you just used to being short?”

Madara locked his jaw. His ears were heating up again, though it wasn’t embarrassing in the same way as it had been a few minutes before. “I’m not short,” he muttered, glaring down the hall.

She began to snicker. “Are you pouting?”

“No.”

“All right, fine,” she acquiesced, though she was still chuckling. “You aren’t that short. Your hair gives you a solid three inches.”

He twitched. He crossed his arms and walked over to the window, ignoring her jesting. “That’s the last time I so graciously give you my sandals.”

It only made her laugh harder under her breath. She followed him over as he lifted himself to sit in the sill, set deep enough into the wall it made a good seat. “How are you even walking in those? It took me upwards of an hour to figure it out.”

“It’s not as if it’s difficult.” He lifted one of his feet and examined it, tilting it back and forth. “ _Some_ of us have good balance.”

“I have good balance, I’ll have you know.” Cocking her head to the side, she squinted at the portion of his shin exposed as he held it aloft, the end of the kimono Mito had somehow procured out of nowhere draping towards the floor. “Did you shave your legs?”

“A few days ago,” he replied, not giving much thought to the question. Mito had wanted to try out some cream concoction she’d made, and she’d managed to drag him in after he’d come to visit her coop, saying she’d already shaved hers.

An interested frown flicked over Toka’s face. “Shouldn’t it have grown back by now?”

He shrugged. “It’s been thinning lately. It doesn’t grow back as quickly.”

He said it in a tone that implied the other person in the conversation already knew the cause; it puzzled her more, and a morbid curiosity took ahold of her. “Thinning? Why?”

“It’s-” He paused with a frown and realized that- of course- she was no Uchiha, and wouldn’t know the reason. “Oh. Right. Well- the Uchiha have cats summons, you see, but it’s not one contract, though many of us sign with the same families- we find one from Sora-ku that will accept us. Those of us who sign with a Sphynx breed usually start to lose some hair.”

Toka stared at him. He was still looking at his heel, as if it was completely normal, even though it sounded ridiculous. “You…lose hair?”

“It’s not that dramatic,” he assured her, rolling his eyes at her disbelieving expression. “No one goes bald. There’s just less hair than usual.”

She still looked skeptical. “Such as…where?”

Huffing, he tugged at his sash and drew his kimono apart, then pulled up one of his sleeves. “I don’t have much chest hair. I still have some on my abdomen-” He pointed at his stomach, where the hair became more apparent the closer it got to his hips. “And _obviously_ I still have hair below the belt.”

“You don’t look like you have much on your arm.”

“I do,” he retorted, sounding the smallest bit cranky, as if it annoyed him, “it’s just lighter. And thinner. It’s still there.”

The sense of curiosity was growing. Inuzuka didn’t start growing a dog’s coat, as far as Toka knew, and she still couldn’t see why the phenomena existed. “What about your legs?”

The sash was tied again, and the lower portion of the kimono pulled aside so he could brandish the entirety of his legs. As she’d thought, they were hairless. “It just doesn’t grow back as it used to.”

“That’s annoying?”

“Of course it is. Don’t you know how _cold_ it gets?” He looked even crankier at that. Toka remembered hearing about the Uchiha’s finances a few times- she would have bet that they hadn’t had extra blankets to go around, and though she couldn’t quite imagine losing her hair would make much of a difference, Hitomi had shaved hers before and said it was fairly chillier.

She reached over and poked his ankle, both eyebrows raised, and he took it that only one meant it was on purpose and meant to poke and prod. “What is it about signing with the cats that makes it happen?”

Her curiosity was less troublesome than he would have assumed. He’d thought a Senju might sound judgmental, at least a little, but she didn’t seem to be at all. “Well,” he hedged, a bit uncomfortable at how much he should divulge, “we do training with them. There’s some materials from Sora-ku we use that humans usually don’t…access. Sometimes they teach us some of their behaviors. It’s just…a side effect.”

“I guess it’s not the oddest thing I’ve ever seen happen to a shinobi. Hashirama grew a sapling directly from his palm once.”

That wasn’t a stretch. Madara could imagine it easily- Hashirama with his hand extended, smiling, happy to have a chance to sow life somewhere it would grow for a long time. Just the image itself was serene.

He couldn’t help a small smile; Toka looked at it, and how he’d yet to smile like that during the conversation, and raised an eyebrow.

* * *

 

He hoped Madara hadn’t gotten overwhelmed. He knew that too much loud noise and activity probably wouldn’t be very enjoyable, especially if his friend got a headache during it. Hashirama had meant to check on him through the night, and he’d spotted him, once or twice, lurking near the edges of the room, but he hadn’t been able to find him for going on ten minutes and it was starting to make him antsy.

The Nara clan head was going on about something to do with the forests and their deer- which portion would work best for them, if he could perhaps reroute a river to help them get started- and he made sure to listen, even though he was scanning the room for a certain Uchiha.

He was highly unprepared, however, for catching a glimpse of the hallway, where Madara was sitting in one of the windows with his legs completely bare wearing what looked exactly like the thin heels Hitomi had been traipsing around in.

He inhaled too quickly and choked, spluttering and hacking and nearly dropping the cup he’d taken a drink from. The Nara around him startled, which was a feat in and of itself, and he frantically tried to get his windpipe working again as the clan head gazed at him with a mildly incredulous look.

“Are you all right?” he asked, like he’d just rammed his head into a wall on purpose.

“I-I’m fine,” Hashirama stammered, once he’d cleared his throat, and smiled despite the stains now on his clothes and the floor. “I- I apologize. What were you- what were you saying?”

The man gazed at him, for a long moment, and started to speak again. Hashirama tried not to think about how he would have drenched the Nara if he was standing a mere foot to the left. “Well, I was thinking we could set up some kind of station for medicine-”

Hashirama dared another glance at the doorway. Madara was still there, speaking to someone else in the hall, and he’d lowered his legs but his kimono was still ridiculously askew. The skin of his collarbone and neck and thighs was almost glowing in the light coming in through the windows, radiant- Hashirama almost forgot to take in another breath as he stood there, barely managing to drag his eyes away to look at the Nara head, struggling to think of something other than Madara sprawled out on their riverbank with his clothes loose and barely tied.

“Would that be agreeable, then?”

“Er, yes, that’s fine,” he replied on autopilot, flushing even further when the Nara raised an eyebrow at him with the barest hint of a smirk. “We want to welcome you as best we can.”

“Of course, of course.” With a lazy nod, the other man shoved one of his hands into a pocket and raised his mug to his lips with the other, eyes half-lidded as he turned to drift to a different place in the room. “I’ll let you go now. Be sure not to choke on anything else.”

For some reason, the quip made Hashirama turn redder. He nodded back politely and looked around for something to do- some way to distract himself- something that didn’t involve staring blankly into space and thinking about Madara’s legs.


End file.
